Tag: gag

Toby glanced down at Mike’s thick, swollen cock. Turning his long-lashed, emerald green eyes back to Mike’s face, he grinned happily, then lowered his head and began to suck the oozing shaft.

“Fuck,” Mike moaned, running his hands over Toby’s smooth, firm body. He clutched the cocksucker’s arms, feeling the biceps moving under the sleeve of tattoos decorating both arms. One of the things that had attracted Mike to Toby when they met at the gym was the latter’s skater punk look. Not that Toby wasn’t as into working out as Mike; but Mike’s was a more conventional buff fag attractiveness.

If it wasn’t love, it had been immediate lust at first sight for both. Within a month, they’d moved in together; that had been more than nine months ago—and the sex was still as hot as ever.

Mike grunted, his sweat-streaked face twisting into a grimace. “Fuckin’-A, dude, I’m gonna unload in yer mouth,” he panted and Toby, anxious for that hot spurt down his throat, redoubled his efforts.

Neither one of them had any idea they were being watched.

They’d left the blinds open; no reason they shouldn’t have—the window looked out onto a small yard surrounded by a privacy fence. Powerful as he was, Adam had been able to vault himself over the fence and land silently on the inside. Now he crouched outside the window, watching, his muscled body inflamed with desire for the young well-built bodies of the twinks and overwhelming disgust for the pathetic homos having sex in front of him.

Mike and Toby still had a daily routine at the gym, but they varied the times they went. Unluckily for them, two weeks ago, they’d been spotted there by Adam. He’d had an idea, a desire, a need—but he also needed a couple to help him fulfill it, and he felt like he’d just discovered the perfect pair.

The idea of pollution had been building in the back of his warped mind. He’d already accepted that fucking a living fag would tarnish him as a homo himself; he needed to purify the meat by snuffing it first.

Recently, though, he’d worked out his necro philosophy in more detail and decided that there were levels of purity. The meat that suffered the most was the most pure; suffering purged the faggot taint out of whatever boycunt he fucked.

That being said, how could he know how pure the meat was unless he offed it himself? Restlessly, his mind turned back to all the corpses he’d plowed that he hadn’t killed. There was no way to know how much they’d suffered—well, except for that last one, the one in the pool locker room; he’d witnessed that snuff and knew he had nothing to fear there.

And that was when he’d had the idea. It rose up in him, a great urge that had to be satisfied if he was going to feel cleansed again.

He needed to recreate those kills—but this time, he’d be the killer. That was the only was he could purge himself of the infection of faggotry. And this time, he’d make goddam sure the meat suffered.

His first necro fuck had been the two dudes in the condo; the day after coming to this conclusion, Adam had been on the hunt for a couple of pansies that he could snuff simultaneously. And the day after that, while finishing up some squats at the gym, his eyes lighted on Mike and Toby, the former doing some bench presses and the latter spotting him.

At one point, Mike had set the barbell back on the rests and, glancing around to see if anyone was looking, reached his hand up the leg of Toby’s shorts and fondled the smaller dude’s cock for a moment. Despite his careful scoping, Mike never caught sight of Adam’s eagle-eye stare; from then on, he and Toby were marked for death.

They appeared to be about the same age—Mike was twenty-three and Toby twenty-one—but Mike was the larger and better-built of the two, by quite bit. At six-foot-one and a hundred and sixty pounds, he certainly wouldn’t have been Adam’s equal in any physical contest, but he was still muscular enough to turn some heads. His short strawberry-blond hair capped a broad, good-natured face which lodged a pair of deep, emotive brown eyes, a short straight nose, smooth cheeks and full, red lips.

Toby was more of a twink at 5-foot-nine and just over a hundred and forty. His long brown hair was straight and shoulder-length; beneath his green eyes and slightly humped nose (evidence of a skateboard mishap that had broken it), he sported a soul patch of thick brown fur on his chin.

After that, Adam started tracking them, stalking the two fags as his prey. He managed to catch them in the locker room a couple of times, giving him the chance to get a better look at the meat he wanted to fuck. The skater punk maintained him image; the writhing patterns and designs of both tattooed arms continuing over his shoulders and down to the tops of his pecs, leaving his small brown nipples free. There was a very faint brown haze of body hair on his flat belly that vanished under his waistband, but otherwise, his lean, lithe body was smooth. Despite the elaboration of the tattooed sleeves, Adam was amused to note that a single open star had been rather inexpertly inked on the back of Toby’s right calf.

Mike’s muscled body was almost as smooth; his bulging pecs and ripped six-pack glistened with sweat under the gym’s fluorescent lights. The size of his hog was obvious in the skimpy shorts he chose to wear, as was his near-constant state of semi-erectness. Again, Toby followed him in this, but the skaterboy’s six inches couldn’t compare with his buff buddy’s long, thick cock.

And again, Adam smirked contemptuously. Neither one of them had a dick as big as his—but then, that was only to be expected from faggots. Might as well put ‘em outta their misery and put their meatsacks to some good purpose.

All of which was why Adam was crouched outside their rented condo. He wasn’t going in tonight; he’d simply been taking a look at the layout and hadn’t actually expected them to be home—they usually went out on Thursday nights. And Adam wanted them both together in the bedroom they shared, not down here. But despite having to watch their vile homo sex, the evening hadn’t been a total washout; the sick necro killer had learned that none of windows looking into the private fenced yard were kept locked. When he was ready, he wouldn’t have any problems gaining access to the interior of the unit.

Two days later, he was ready.

Mike and Toby had plans to go clubbing with some friends on Saturday night but the moment they’d paid their cover charge, Tyler had gotten into a bitchfight with his latest trick and it was easier to just split than listen to the squabbling. Besides, Mike would have preferred to stay home and lay pipe up Toby’s ass all night anyway; it was the latter who’d wanted to go out.

At any rate, they were home by about eleven that night. Half an hour later, both were in the bedroom. Mike was seated on the unmade bed wearing nothing more than a pair of American Eagle boxer briefs and a pair of Nike Vandal hightops. Both the kicks and the briefs were gray; the latter had a thick black waistband that stretched tautly around Mike’s narrow waist and black seams down the front that outlined the muscle twink’s huge package.

He was leaning back against the headboard, his left leg drawn up with the sneaker on the sheet and his right leg dangling. With one arm bent back behind his head as a sort of cushion, Mike toked on a freshly-lit joint and ogled Toby, who stood the center of the room.

The slim, tatted skaterpunk had slipped out of all his clothing. Completely nude except for his black Adidas Baseline kicks, he was returning from the attached bathroom, his own dick hard and bobbing in front of him as he approached Mike.

Reaching the bed, he stood next to it. “Here, gimme a hit,” he grinned, reaching out for the joint. Mike relinquished it but reached out himself, grabbing Toby’s shaft and jacking it as the younger punk inhaled deeply.

“That’s it,” Mike said approvingly as Toby exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke, “Get yourself nice and high. You’re gonna need it before your ass goes off duty for the night.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Toby replied with stoned grin, “I know you’re—”

With a loud crash, the bedroom door was kicked open, a single, powerful kick that literally broke the door in half. A hulking masculine figure, dressed in black, strode into the room, raw power obvious in every step he took.

Adam had given up his usual gym attire for this one. He’d wanted to take the pansies by surprise and anyway their condo wasn’t a public place—he’d have no excuse for being seen near the place, so it was best not to be seen at all.

To that extent, he’d made sure that his long-sleeve t-shirt and tight-fitting cargo pants were matte black, nearly impossible to see under the cover of night. His bright copper hair was likewise covered with a close-fitting black knit cap. And he’d forgone his sneakers. While he’d been able to clear the fence the other night, his feet had nearly slipped; he wanted better traction.

He’d found it in a pair of Magnum Response III tactical boots, custom ordered with steel toes. He’d bought them for another reason, but thought they’d work perfectly for what he had in mind. He’d been right. He planted his big black lace-up boot in the middle of the door and kicked his way into the homos’ bedroom with almost no effort at all.

For Mike and Toby, the violence seemed to explode like a bomb. Their different personalities were obvious by their actions once the “fight or flight” instinct kicked in. Toby shrank back into a corner in fear as Mike leaped off the bed and came at the intruder.

He never stood a chance. Adam, seeing him coming, drew back his powerful arm and swung wide, driving his balled-up fist into Mike’s face with the force of a semi hitting a brick wall. The unlucky faggot spun in a half-circle, staggering back and falling, stunned, against the bed.

Filled with rage and lust, Adam turned to Toby, who crouched whimpering in the corner of the bedroom. Seeing that he’d attracted the intruder’s attention, the lean skater punk began babbling. “No, man,” he whined, holding up his hands, “Whatever you want, dude, just take it—please don’t hurt us, man, please don’t!”

Striding towards him with a homicidal gleam in his eye, Adam laughed coldly. “Yeah, I’m gonna take what I want, you fuckin’ pansy. I’m gonna take the fag right outta you, cunt. When I’m done with you, you ain’t ever gonna suck another cock again, cunt.”

By now, he was standing in front of Toby, looming over quaking homo. From behind, he could hear the long, slow groans of Mike regaining consciousness, but he wasn’t particularly worried about him. He’d handle the stronger fairy when he needed to.

Toby looked up at Adam, trying to understand his words. He was still terrified; this huge, powerful stranger had burst into the room and punched out Mike with a single blow—what the fuck was going on?

“Is-is this some kinda hate crime?” the long-haired punk quavered, his eyes starting to tear up.

Toby gasped at the size of Adam’s member; even Mike, big as he was, wasn’t that well-hung—this dude was some kinda freak. Despite himself, he could feel his own cock respond—limp with fear, it was now stiffening and standing erect.

Reaching down, Adam clamped one large strong hand around Toby’s throat and lifted him bodily off the ground. Holding him out at arm’s length, he chuckled as the skaterboy gagged and jerked, his black Adidas kicks swinging helplessly a foot from the ground.

Looking directly into Toby’s eyes, Adam smiled—a thin smile, sharp as the edge of a knife—and said, “Only one way to earn my cock, faggot—you gotta suffer. And you don’t know the meaning of that word yet, but don’t worry—I’ll teach ya. And yer little fairy boyfriend there too. You’ll both learn how to suffer real good.”

Staring into the cunt’s eyes, Adam caught a flicker of movement. Slamming Toby into the wall and dropping him like a sack of potatoes, the muscular killer wheeled around and caught Mike full in the face with another powerful punch, just as the buff young homo had regained his feet and launched himself for an attack.

With a loud grunt, Mike fell to the floor, bleeding from the corner of his mouth. Dazed by this second impact, he stared dully up at Adam. “Stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” Adam sneered. “Don’t know when to stay down, do ya? Here, maybe this’ll learn ya.” Stooping, he punched Mike in the face yet again. This time he was rewarded with the satisfying crunching sound of the faggot’s nose breaking, the cartilage crushed under the force of his fist.

Pausing for a moment, Adam unzipped one of the pockets on the left thigh of his cargo pants and withdrew several long zip ties. “You win the grand prize, you lucky cocksucker,” he smirked. “You get to watch. Pay attention, asswipe, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”

The well-built homo was flipped onto his belly; he could feel a thin plastic tie cinch inexorably around his wrists and another around his ankles, but the two powerful blows to his face had rendered him incapable of any physical activity for the moment. By the time he recovered enough to attempt any resistance, it was too late. Strong as he was, Mike wasn’t able to stretch the zip ties so much as a quarter of an inch, much less break them.

Adam kicked the faggot’s prone body viciously, using enough force to roll him onto his back. Much like he’d handled Toby, the hulking, muscle-bound killer bent down and grabbed Mike by the throat, lifting him into the air. Gagging, his Nike Vandals kicking uselessly inches above the carpet, the hardbodied twink was manhandled back to the bed, where Adam tossed him down. Snatching a handful of hair, the sadist dragged Mike upright, propping him into a seated position where he could take in the entire bedroom in a single glance.

Mike was gonna have a perfect view of Adam snuffing Toby.

In the meantime the long-haired fairy had crawled back into the corner, his young face etched with bewildered terror. He’d always expected Mike to defend him if the need arose, but this huge, bulked-out psycho who’d burst in on them so unexpectedly had overpowered Mike like he’d been a little girl. Now the man was rounding on him, and he was helpless. Whatever was gonna happen, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Oh God, no,” he sniveled, cowering as Adam loomed over him. Glancing hesitantly up at his attacker, he watched mesmerized as the towering madman unexpectedly gabbed the hem of his own t-shirt and pulled it off over his head in a single, fluid motion, revealing his hard, furry torso that descended in a V-shape from his broad shoulders and firm, rounded pecs to his narrow waist. The knit cap had come off, tangled in the shirt, and revealed a slightly tangled mass of bright, coppery hair.

The dude was a serious stud. Toby felt himself getting hard. But that was despite of his terror, not because of it, and even though he could see a large translucent bead of precum oozing from the piss slit of the intruder’s cock, fear was taking more of his attention at the moment than horniness.

The fear was well-deserved. Adam bent down and grabbed a hank of Toby’s long hair. Wrapping it around his palm he jerked the squalling twink up onto his feet.

“C’mon, faggot, let’s get started,” he growled, grabbing Toby by the throat and hoisting him in the air again, “I gotta load to drain and I can already tell it’s gonna take a while to beat the queer outta a pathetic little homo like you.”

Toby only kicked in Adam’s grip for a moment before his face and his world exploded in pain. Adam punched him vicious in the face, then hurled him across the room. The skater’s lean body slammed into the front of the dresser. The force of the impact rolled him up over the top of it, scattering everything—their cell phones, their wallets, piles of loose change and receipts, all of it went flying as Toby smacked into the wall, then rolled back forward off the dresser and onto the floor.

Groaning in pain, the tattooed twink opened his eyes. To hurt to move, all he could see of his assailant as he approached were his laced-up boots. They came nearer, then one drew back. By the time Toby realized what it meant, it was too late to avoid it. With one single brutal kick from his steel-toed boot, Adam broke Toby’s jaw.

The lean, lithe punkboy spent the next minute or so writhing on the floor, gurgling and mewling in agony as Adam watched him with erect, throbbing satisfaction. The buff killer didn’t get to enjoy the view in peace for long, though—the other faggot began to squawk.

Adam looked around the room and soon saw what he’d expected to find. Ambling over to a pile of dirty laundry near the closet door, he bent down and picked up a reeking, stained jockstrap, stiff with cum. Turning back to Mike with a grin, he said, “You’ll get yer chance to squeal like a pig yerself later, cunt, for all the good it’ll do ya. In the meantime, keep your fuckin’ trap shut and enjoy watchin’ yer bitch suffer.” Rolling the jock into a ball, he forced it into Mike’s mouth, leaving the muscled top gagging and mute, but still able to see everything that happened.

While Adam’s attention was diverted, an instinct for self-preservation kicked in deep inside Toby’s craven soul. Even though the slightest movement of his head caused him terrible agony, he managed to rise to his hands and knees and crawl. By the time Adam had silenced Mike and turned back to Toby, the latter was halfway to the door.

“Oh no you don’t, asswipe,” Adam growled and headed for him. Toby could hear him approaching from behind; desperate tears leaked from his eyes as he realized he’d never make the door before the powerful psycho had reached him, but he had to keep going, he had to try…

When Adam got to him, he merely stood over the cringing, crawling twink for a moment, chuckling gutturally. Then he delivered another vicious, lightning-fast kick, this one connecting with Toby’s left elbow.

The force behind the steel-toed boot didn’t just dislocate the joint, it snapped the ball end off the humerus, tore the tendons and completely severed the ligaments. Despite the pain in his jaw, Toby screeched involuntarily as he collapsed and rolled onto his left side. Adam walked around the sobbing, trembling punk until he was facing him.

“Didja really think you were gonna get away, you stupid sack of shit? Fuck, dude, here I was tryin’ to make ya worth my dick, and now it looks like I’m gonna hafta kick the dumbass outta ya, you worthless faggot bitch.” Still sobbing incoherently, Toby didn’t even notice Adam raise his foot up.

He damn sure noticed when Adam stomped on his chest, the deep tread of his thick-soled boot grinding into Toby’s soft flesh. The loud snapping sound that accompanied it, like the splintering of a green limb, showed that one of the punkboy’s ribs had caved in under the sudden force—and if it didn’t show it, the sudden, high-pitched squeal forced from between Toby’s split, bleeding lips did.

“Fuck yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Adam crowed, his huge, stiff cock pulsing visibly while he drank in the image of the tattooed skate punk writhing in nightmarish agony. He was really getting off on hurting the little homo, seeing the fear and pain in his eyes. And he still had another fucktoy in reserve—tonight was gonna be so fuckin’ hot…

Toby was wrapped in torment like a flaming blanket. Every part of him was throbbing with pain, from the dull ache of bruised flesh to the glassy torture of broken bones. He’d stopped trying to think; he could only endure. An involuntary muscle jerk had pulled his head slightly to the side—from where he lay on the floor, he could clearly see Mike on the bed. The idea that Mike might rescue him was long gone. Mike was on the other side of the room, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world. Toby could see that his boyfriend was crying, but it meant nothing.

Pain was the only thing that had meaning for Toby anymore. And Adam knew it.

The relentless sadist sneered at his prey. “Does it hurt, bitch? Yeah? It ain’t enough, you worthless sack of faggot shit; you ain’t hurt anywhere near enough yet to deserve my grade-A manmeat.” He raised his boot again. This time, Toby knew what was happening. As Adam stomped, the fit, lean youth swung his right arm up and knocked the alpha’s foot away with all the force he could muster.

“You stupid pansy,” Adam barked and planted his foot in the middle of the kid’s right forearm, his big black boot covering a large section of inked flesh. With a swift, smooth motion—so casual it almost looked rehearsed—the powerful psycho bent down, grabbed Toby right wrist, and pulled it violently upward. There was a quick double-snap as both the radius and the ulna splintered; when Adam let go, the kid’s arm flopped uselessly back to the floor.

Toby didn’t react to this new source of pain. Deep in sensory overload, he was starting to go into shock. Lying on his back with his smooth chest heaving in shallow, irregular gasps, the tortured twink stared the ceiling, his bright green eyes wide and vacant. His short, thick cock had gone limp, but that didn’t bother Adam. He knew the punk would get hard again by the time he was done with him.

After all, the meat would be even more pure if the worthless fag sperm was drained out of it before Adam fucked it.

As Toby continued to shudder and tremble on the floor, Adam waked around him until he was facing Mike on the bed. With a wide, deliberate grin, he raised his right foot and planted his boot on the young faggot’s neck. The sadistic killer stared directly into Mike’s disbelieving, tear-filled eyes. “Look, ma,” he whispered. “No hands.” The hulking stud slowly began shifting his weight onto the foot on Toby’s neck.

The tattooed skaterpunk could only stare helplessly up at the huge, muscle-bound figure towering over him; there was no way for Toby to defend himself. His broken arms jerked and flopped aimlessly, like dying fish; he had no way reach for the heavy black boot that was slowly—oh, so slowly—crushing his throat. If he kicked, he bent his abdomen, causing his snapped rib to dig agonizingly into his guts, threatening to puncture his lung and pancreas. If he tried to cry out, the jagged ends of his broken jaw ground together, causing hellish pain in his mouth…

Every movement bristled with torture, but Toby’s air was gradually being cut off. He couldn’t keep still. The tread on the killer’s sole was deep and intricate; as it sank into the tender flesh of his throat, what little lucidity the long-haired power bottom still possessed began to melt away in the face of impending asphyxiation.

Adam bent his head and spat in Toby’s face. “Gettin’ harder to breathe, ain’t it?” he chuckled. “See, as you choke an’ die, yer dick is gonna get all hard—and then yer gonna cum. Happens almost every time I choke out a faggot. You perverted little pansies empty your fuckin’ balls every time I waste ya—nothin’ turns ya on like gettin’ put down hard. You wanna suffer even more than I wanna fuck you up. Disgusting sack a’ shit—I gotta squeeze your load out and drain your sick fag seed outta yer meat to make it worthy of my cock. Don’t worry, motherfucker—I’ll fill yer worthless corpse with my sperm. I’ll baptize yer guts with hot manspunk before I leave you to rot. And best of all, your fairy-ass boyfriend gets to watch you die!”

The words hit Toby’s ears like a dull ache, utterly swamped in the rising tide of instinctive terror as his oxygen was cut off. He began to shudder and kick, helplessly flailing his firm, smooth legs and jerking his broken arms aimlessly. Air. He needed air.

And that was when it finally hit the lean twink—the realization that he was gonna die finally sank through the multiple layer of pain that had wrapped him like a cocoon. Panic set in, a terrifying white panic the left him conscious and aware but still unable to control his actions. Smirking, Adam watched Toby lose his shit as the boy choked under the alpha’s booted foot. The pathetic little homo thrashed, his Adidas Baseline kicks carving furrows in the carpet as his inked arms flailed limply and helplessly.

As he struggled, Toby’s long hair became tangled and dark with sweat. His entire body, in fact, was slick with sweat, the cold rank sweat of physical suffering. The brutalized faggot’s smooth firm flesh glistened in the light, even as his face began to swell and grow dark. “Hey, man,” Adam called out to Mike, “Lookit this shit. See how his eyes are bulgin’? That’s cause pressure’s building up in his head. Damn, motherfucker, that’s gotta hurt like shit.”

From his position on the floor, Toby found that he couldn’t look away from his killer’s tall, powerfully-built form—quite literally. As Adam had pointed out, his eyes were bulging; he couldn’t close them. Toby had no choice but to stare up at the stud who was snuffing him.

The most immediate part of Adam in Toby’s field of vision was the shaft of his boot, the black leather rising from the bottom of his line of sight—he could clearly see how the extra-long laces circled the top of the shaft and were tied in front. Above it, he could trace the line of the alpha’s thick calf and thigh muscles, outlined in the leg of his cargo pants.

Then there was the cock–the huge, throbbing shaft, jutting arrogantly in from, clear precum oozing in an almost steady stream…but Toby had to block that out, he couldn’t follow the link of pain and death and lust…

Beyond the webbed nylon belt circling his tight waist, the curly, golden fur that rose above the waistband, running up the killer’s ripped abs, spread out lushly on his broad, jutting pecs. Heaving with exertion, Adam’s chest glittered as he moved and beads of sweat caught in his body hair caught the light.

Above that, there was a face, a beautiful, cold, contempt-filled face surmounted by red-gold curls like a copper nimbus, but it was too far away. Toby was starting to have trouble seeing; darkness exploded in his sight light the blooms of huge black flowers. His tongue was swelling, causing the dying twink horrible pain as it forced aside his broken jaw, but there was nothing he could do. White, foamy drool leaked from his swelling lips, running down his chin and pooling around the treads of Adam’s utility boot.

The pounding in his heat was swift and intense; Toby could feel that it coincided with his speeding, panicked heart. Despite the pounding and loud ringing in his ears, the slowly choking youth could hear the sadistically mocking words of his killer.

“How’s it feel, dying like a fuckin’ insect, havin’ yer useless life ground out under my boot, faggot? Ya like gettin’ put down like the garbage you are, huh? Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, I toldja you’d get hard again. Disgustin’ little pervert, you just fuckin’ love it when a real man finally ends yer worthless existence. C’mon, homo, time to drain yer sick faggot sperm so I can fuck some clean meat.”

With a snarl, Adam leaned forward, throwing all his weight on his right foot. There was a loud crunch and the steel-toed boot suddenly sank a good two inches into Toby’s throat as the punk’s windpipe collapsed. The young fag’s attention, momentarily diverted to the bizarre phenomenon of his throbbing, painfully erect cock, experienced the blast of horrifying agony that accompanies a mortal injury.

Adam steadied himself as the lean, lithe body beneath his feet began to shudder violently. Toby’s huge green eyes, stained red by numerous ruptured blood vessels, rolled back into his head as he convulsed, his legs drawing up, then straightening as he kicked his life away with such force the Adidas sneaker was pulled off his left foot. The buff alpha knew what was happening; shifting his body to one side, he applied more pressure to the boot embedded in the twink’s neck, twisting his foot sideways.

With a loud cracking noise, Adam snapped Toby’s neck like a dead twig. As the sudden electrochemical shock flooded the dead kid’s nervous system, his erect shaft pulsed visibly and sent a solid stream of boyjizz up in a four-foot geyser. Disgust on his face, Adam managed to dodge the fountain of spunk, letting it splash back on Toby body as it continued to jerk and flail in its death throes.

“Fuck yeah, man, there we go,” the sick top gloated at the dead boy’s sobbing boyfriend. “Once that worthless fag spunk is unloaded, I’ll fill the meat with real manseed. Finally givin’ this useless pansy a purpose—it died so I can have a cumrag.”

Adam stalked across the room, retrieving a chair that was standing behind the closet door. As he did so, Mike, aflame with panic and anger, writhed violently on the bed. Unable to loosen the zip ties binding him, the muscle twink increased his efforts until he managed to rise up vertically on the bed. Once he was upright, though, he had no way of balancing himself and instantly felt himself falling over sideways.

His thick, muscular body hit the nightstand with a crash, causing him to start bleeding again from his already-broken nose. He fell to the floor, accompanied by the lamp. The bulb didn’t break; still lit, the light cast surreal shadows across the room from its low angle on the floor.

Adam had watched it all happen. He wasn’t worried about Mike; there was no way for the meat to break free of its bonds. And the dude had landed on the floor in a great position for a close-up of the next act.

The buff killer placed the chair upright in front of Mike, a few feet away. Then he bent down and grabbed Toby, manhandling the still-quivering corpse until he’d draped it face-down over the back of the chair. Then, without another word, he brandished his huge, dripping cock, grinned at Mike, and mounted the dead kid, his shaft penetrating Toby’s sphincter and sinking deeply into the meat’s guts.

“Fuck yeah, nice and smooth, just like I like ‘em,” Adam smirked as Mike burst anew into hot tears of outrage and terror. The bound punk struggled to protest, but the soiled jock had been shoved too deeply into his mouth for him to be able to force it out; all he could do was watch the violation of his boyfriend’s corpse in silence.

The chair creaked loudly as Adam gripped the meat’s narrow waist and plowed its still-spasming asshole. His furry, sweat-streaked flesh slapped loudly against Toby’s cooling skin as the alpha brutally pumped his shaft into the dead boy’s rectum. As he fucked the corpse, Adam reached up and grabbed a handful of the punk’s long hair and jerked it back, raising Toby’s head.

“Look at him,” the vicious sadist hissed at the crying, struggling boy on the ground, “Look at his face. See the pain and terror he endured? See how the horror of his last few seconds of life are etched into his face? Disgustin’ little faggot deserved to suffer so much more but he was weak. You ain’t. You can take what I’m gonna give ya—and it’s gonna be so much worse than what he went through.”

Adam never missed a single stroke of his brutal necro fuck as he spoke, slamming his gigantic rod into the corpse with a virulent power that was equal parts lust and hatred. Through his tears, Mike watched Toby’s body jerk and flop with every intrusive thrust of Adam’s hips.

Suddenly Adam’s face tightened. He gave a loud grunt, ramming his shaft home as his hulking, muscle-bound form went rigid. There was a loud crack and the chair began a slow-motion collapse under the weight of Adam’s orgasmic thrust. The killer had time to slide one booted foot forward and keep his balance as the chair bent forward and fell to the floor. Toby’s body fell with it, slowly sliding off the alpha’s still-shooting cock. Adam finished up by spraying his load onto the corpse’s back.

Snorting with contempt, Adam glared at Mike. “Fucker was totally worthless. Even dead, he couldn’t take a real man’s load. My balls are still fulla cum, motherfucker—now it’s yer turn. He was just the appetizer—you’re the main course, fuckwad. And I like to linger over my meat. Ready to dance, asswipe? Yer gonna die clawin’ and pissin’ yerself in agony, faggot.”

Mike shook his head frantically, the stained jockstrap protruding from his mouth. His already large brown eyes were huge with stunned shock; the sheer horror of watching his boyfriend’s snuff and necro-rape was reflected in his taut, pale face.

Bending down, Adam wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat. Hoisting the jerking, struggling youth into the air, he slammed him against the wall on the far side of the dresser. The terrified fag had a brief lucid moment to comprehend the sheer power of his assailant as Adam drew his right arm back, keeping Mike pinned with his back to the wall, several inches off the ground, with just one hand—and this with a loose enough grip to allow the beefy punk to breathe.

The he noticed that Adam’s hand had curled into a fist. He saw the dude’s massive bicep twitch—and then his world exploded in pain as Adam drove his fist into the pansy’s face with the force of a steam hammer.

Mike’s head rocked backwards, punching a hole in the drywall as his left cheekbone and the thin bone behind his left eye shattered. His hands, uselessly bound behind him, clawed at the wall, peeling off strips of paint with his fingernails. His loud cry was muffled by the reeking fabric shoved into his throat.

He didn’t need to worry about the gag for long. The bruised, battered homo was so stunned by the blow to his head that he never saw Adam’s thick arm draw back again. He felt it, though; the muscular sadist pounded his huge fist straight into Mike’s solar plexus, at the base of his sternum.

The writhing fag’s diaphragm spasmed, his well-built chest collapsing in as the air in his lungs was expelled violently enough for him to blow the jockstrap out of his mouth; it dropped to the floor in the few inches of no-man’s-land between the vicious killer and his helpless prey. Mike was unable to take advantage of his sudden freedom to speak—his entire attention was focused on being able to breathe. For several terrifying seconds, the buff young queerboy was unable to inhale, his lungs refusing to inflate. His eyes, wide and round, the left one blackening and swelling, were dulled over in sheer panic as he savored a foretaste of suffocation.

Suddenly the bulging groin of his American Eagle boxers darkened. Struggling and terrified, the well-built youth had pissed himself in terror, the yellow urine running down his legs and flowing into his Nikes. His one lucid thought was that however he was gonna die, he didn’t want to choke or suffocate. Anything but this, he begged silently in the dark empty corners of his mind. Anything but this.

Adam read the terror in the kid’s eyes and his grin widened and became shark-like. His thick, swinging dick stiffened as he contemplated the bound, helpless faggot in his grasp. The fucker was his do with as he pleased—and what pleased him damn sure wasn’t gonna please the homo.

Jerking and sweating, Mike suddenly inhaled deeply, managing to force oxygen back into his lungs. With no warning, Adam delivered a brutal gutpunch to the suspended boy, sinking his fist deep into Mike’s firm, flat belly and driving out the air again. This time, he released the kid, letting Mike fall back to the floor, shuddering and gasping like a landed fish dying on the deck of a trawler. As the fag’s face went purple, Adam stood over him, sneering.

“Lookitya, you pathetic piece a’ shit,” he drawled contemptuously. “Got yerself all buff an’ muscular, but yer still a worthless fuckin’ fairy. Your muscles ain’t no match for mine, asswipe; they ain’t gonna help ya now. I’m gonna fuck you up even worse than I did yer pansy-ass little boyfriend. Hey, remember when I did this to ‘im?”

With a swift kick of his powerful leg, Adam’s steel-toed boot smashed into Mike’s flank, shattering two ribs into multiple pieces. Once again, the handsome young homo had just regained his air, only to suffer a brutal impact that drove it back out. This one was worse, though. This one did major damage.

For the rest of Mike’s life—that is, for the next few minutes—the fit young punk desperately tried to breathe, never knowing that bone shards from his broken ribs had punctured his left lung, causing it slowly to deflate. He only knew the creeping terror of slow advancing suffocation—and pain. He became very familiar with pain.

Leaving one boot planted firmly on Mike’s chest, Adam leaned down and casually spit in the youth’s strained, agonized face. “Naw, man, I ain’t gonna kill ya with my feet like I did yer fucktoy,” he jeered. “That was fun, but I got somethin’ more…intense planned for you. But first, I wanna know—did he ever fuck you? Or were you always the top?”

Mike looked up at the alpha, his eyes running from the tightly laced boot on his chest up along the well-fitted black cargo pants to the huge, engorged shaft of manmeat that jutted out in front of Adam. Huge and oozing, it added an emphasis to the sadist’s questions that intimidated the fuck out of Mike. Wallowing in pain, he looked away, gasping and heaving.

“What was that, fuckmeat?” Adam grinned. Bending down, he clamped his left hand around Mike’s throat. The bulked-out psycho was strong enough to hoist the buff young homo into the air single-handedly. His windpipe was almost completely closed off this time and his left flank burned with pain where his ribs ground together but the attractive young punk unfortunately managed to remain somewhat lucid. Lucid enough to comprehend the sheer power of the man who had him so completely at his mercy.

He needed a way to fight back. Despite the pain, he needed to fight back or the same thing would happen to him that happened to Toby. Toby—oh fuck, Toby, what the fuck happened…they were just gonna have a fun evening and this fucker showed up…

With a lightning-fast lunge of his arm, Adam snatched at Mike’s piss-soaked briefs and tore them off him, the elastic at the waist snapping back painfully on Mike’s bare flesh. Nude except for his Nike hightops, the queer hunk dangled in mid-air, slowly choking as he struggled and squirmed, causing the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles to dig even deeper into his skin.

“Did that dead piece a’ shit lyin’ over there ever fuck you, asswipe?” Adam demanded. “Ever had a cock up yer boyhole? Answer me, fuckwad!” Adam punctuated his demand with another blow to Mike’s face, this one splitting his lips and knocking out one of the kid’s canines. “Can’t talk, motherfucker? Ok, just nod or shake yer head. Or I’m gonna beat ya to death right fuckin’ now.”

Mike’s lucidity was fast drowning in a rising tide of terror; he knew the hulking stud wasn’t kidding. Eventually, he forced himself to shake his head—not very well, but enough for Adam to feel it.

And when he did, he grinned. “Excellent. Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than fuckin’ a virgin corpse.”

Mike would have pissed himself again at the words if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder—and if his dick hadn’t grown unaccountably hard.

Adam noticed it too. “Fuckin’ fag pervert,” he snarled, “Ya like that, dontcha? You want my fuckin’ rod in ya so bad yer willin’ to die to get it, aintcha? Disgustin’ piece a’ shit—see, this is why I gotta waste ya. Doin’ the fuckin’ world a favor, I am, by clearin’ it of sick fucks like you.”

Mike could feel his pulse racing—it pounded in his temples and in his rigid cock. His eyes felt like they were gonna pop right out of his head; tears streamed down his cheeks. Pain and terror fought for control within him and he wondered if he was going to die like this, suspended in mid-air, shuddering and jerking.

And then he was sailing through the air. It happened in the blink of an eye; there was no warning—Adam simply tossed him across the room with no more effort than if he was a rag doll. The buff homo slammed violently into the wooden headboard. It broke in half vertically with a loud crack as a hundred and sixty pounds of muscled boymeat smashed against it and fell back limply onto the tangled pile of sheets covering the bed.

Barely conscious, Mike rolled onto his back and stared blankly up at the ceiling as well as his swollen eyes would allow—particularly the left one. His entire face was bruised and puffed up, aching horribly from the broken bones in his face. It hurt bad, but his side, where the snapped ribs were grinding against each other, hurt worse. His wrists and ankles were raw and nearly bleeding from the way the zip ties had cut into his flesh during his useless struggles. Fuck, it all hurt so bad…and then there was Toby…

The hardbodied young punk was losing his will to live. Mike had endured a ruthless mindfuck. Despite his impressive build, he wasn’t emotionally strong; he simply couldn’t handle the combination of mental and physical trauma he’d been forced to endure. Adam could see it in his eyes; the homo was starting to check out. He needed to move fast.

Suddenly Mike felt a weight on him. Adam was climbing onto the bed—and onto him. His blank stare no longer focused on the ceiling; now his killer filled his field of vision. Seeing the hard face, so cruel and so handsome, topped with copper curls, Mike knew he was looking into the face of the man who was gonna kill him. For the first time, he really knew it.

The power of the muscle-bound sadist was obvious; it was expressed in everything about him from the wiry, sweat-matted fur covering his broad hubcap pecs to the powerful tang of adrenaline and testosterone that was blended in with his musky perspiration. Mike knew he was strong, but he was helpless before this bulked-out hypermasculine stud.

Adam knew the score. He lowered himself down, letting his massive cock make contact with Mike’s flat, smooth belly. The thick, engorged head was oozing precum steadily; it acted as lube, letting the pulsing shaft of manmeat slide up Mike’s abdomen. As Adam lay full-length on Mike, belly to belly, their erect dicks were pressed between them, side by side.

“Look at me, faggot,” Adam whispered quietly, almost seductively, as he wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat. “Look me in the eyes as I put yer worthless ass down. I wanna watch your wasted life drain outta ya. I wanna see death in yer eyes. You feel me, bro? Last thing yer ever gonna see is my grinnin’ face as I wipe yer fag ass off the face of the earth.”

And then he started squeezing.

Mike had panicked as he’d been held up and dangled but Adam hadn’t been trying to strangle him then. This was different. This hurt a fuck of a lot more. He was low on oxygen as it was, his left lung having slowly collapsed over the last few minutes, but Adam was literally crushing his esophagus. The cruel killer had wrapped his fingers behind the boy’s neck but had placed his thumbs in front, right on the larynx. As he clamped his hands down with the force of steel trap, Mike’s voicebox was remorselessly shoved back into his throat, the cartilage deforming past its limits.

It hurt, Jesus, it hurt so fuckin’ bad. But as bad as it hurt, the pain receded into a loud buzzing in the background as white, blinding tide of terror rose within Mike. He was suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. Worse, he couldn’t fight it. He was helpless, pressed under the heavy mass of his killer’s muscles, his hands and legs excruciatingly bound. This was it, oh fuck, this was for real, no, no, he wasn’t gonna die, not now…

Adam knew the faggot was too far gone in fear to pay attention to anything he said. And while that was a good thing—fear was excellent for purifying faggotry—the little (compared to Adam) fuckwad needed to be brought back into the now. Applying some pressure, he swiftly and viciously dug his thumbs in and was rewarded with a loud crack.

Mike instantly stopped thrashing and stared with horror into Adam’s face. His larynx had just been crushed into a useless mass of mangled cartilage.

As his gorgeous but abused body went rigid in horrific agony, some dark corner of Mike’s mind-raped psyche knew the brutal sadist was speaking the truth. Even in the midst of overwhelming suffering, Mike could feel his own shaft, achingly erect, rubbing against his killer’s ripped, hairy abs.

“Time for lights out, asswipe,” Adam continued. “You’re almost clean enough for my cock. I just need to squeeze the defective homo sperm outta yer nutsack and you’ll be ready to receive the load of a real man. Time to die.” He paused, with a faint chuckle. “Ain’t like anyone’s gonna miss another faggot, anyways. Only one who mighta cared is already dead. And he was a damn lousy fuck.”

He squeezed even harder. Mike’s tongue, already thick, swelled to the point it forced his mouth open. The near-black tip parted the cunt’s blue lips as white foamy drool trickled down the youth’s cheeks. As the weight of asphyxiation crushed his chest, Mike’s tremulous sanity succumbed to remorseless hammering in his head. A screaming pitch-black vortex of sheer terror opened in his mind…

…but he wasn’t too far gone to hear—or to feel—the loud crackling, crunching sound as his trachea collapsed into a bloody mass of gristle under Adam’s relentless, vise-like grip. And in the utter shock of fatal injury, Mike shot a death load of epic proportions. His bulging eyes were looking directly into Adam’s as he felt an agony he’d never know could exist—it felt like his entire self, his life essence, had been violently ripped out and was being expelled in his hot, ropy jizz.

His powerful, sweaty body entwined with that of the dying muscular twink, Adam felt the faggot’s spunk splattering over his abs and soaking into the wiry fur that forested his bulked-out torso. It infuriated him—nasty homo seed contaminating his well-cared-for body. With a roar, he let go of Mike’s neck and grabbed the unlucky pansy’s ankles.

In the last five seconds of his life, Mike suffered one last time from the sadistic stranger’s hate and lust. Enraged, Adam jerked the kid’s legs apart. As ice-cold darkness closed in on him, Mike saw Adam’s huge, sweaty biceps flex awesomely—and then, with a loud snap, Adam broke the zip tie. The thin plastic dug through Mike’s flesh down to the bone, but it finally gave way before the sheer power of the hardbodied killer.

The cuts had severed an artery in Mike’s right ankle, but since his heart had stopped beating almost simultaneously, blood merely seeped from the wound instead of spurting. Adam wasn’t done with his victim, though.

Enraged, the psychotic stud brandished his hard, club-like cock and plunged it into Mike’s fuckhole. Even though the corpse’s sphincter was flaccid in death, it still wasn’t elastic enough to accept a shaft of the size of the one now being brutally rammed into it—Adam tore the dead kid’s ass open. “You worthless queerboy fucker,” he snarled, “Thought you’d make me a fag by squirtin’ yer diseased homo cum on me, huh? You ain’t the first faggot to try it, cunt, but ain’t none of ya ever man enough to turn me!”

His hips thrusting swiftly, Adam nailed the dead kid’s butthole. Sweat trickled down the small of his muscled back as he fucked the corpse, every pump of his cock violently expressing his hate and disgust for the fag he was banging. He became aware that his balls were drawing up as his semen started to boil over. And then orgasm hit him, almost like a violent cramp.

“Fuck!” he screamed, “Fuck!”

It was almost involuntary, the way his right arm drew back and then pumped forward like a steam piston, smashing into the corpse’s face. Adam didn’t try to stop it, though—it felt so fuckin’ right. As his cock swelled and spurted again, his fist shot forward again. And again. With every spurt of hot manseed from his engorged dick, Adam punched Mike’s swollen, blackened face as hard as he could.

This was what Adam had wanted, had hoped for—had worked for. It felt right.

He came a lot. A lot. By the time he was done, Mike was unrecognizable. Adam had beaten his face to hamburger.

With a deep sigh, Adam pulled back and sat on the bed, his dripping cock resting on the tangled sheets. He glanced around the room, noting the position of a couple of items, then got up and headed for the bathroom.

After spending a few minutes cleaning the drying semen off his torso, he tucked his dick back into his cargo pants. Grabbing a clean towel, he headed back to the bedroom. Once there, he used the towel to pry the Nike Vandals off Mike’s feet. They were soaked with the dead kid’s piss, but they could be cleaned.

Then he collected Toby’s Adidas kicks, pulling one off his foot and simply picking the other up off the floor. He’d seen a gym bag on the far side of the dresser; he used it to collect his trophies, picking up his long-sleeve t-shirt and his knit cap as he passed them. It was a cool night, but Adam was still warm and sweaty; he decided not to put either on at the moment.

Bag in hand, he paused at the door and looked back. Toby was still lying belly-up on the floor, his limbs and head all at grotesque angles to the body. Mike, his hands still bound behind him, was also lying belly-up on the bed, his legs spread, white spunk oozing from his ravaged asshole.

It wasn’t complete. He needed to recreate that first necro fuck for it to be right.

Leaving the bag at the door, Adam returned to Toby and rolled him over, off the broken remains of the chair, burying his dead swollen face in the carpet. With a quick step to the bed, the psycho killer grabbed Mike’s corpse under the arms, dragging it over to Toby’s. Tossing it down on top of the long-haired dude’s body like a sack of dirty laundry, Adam bent down and manipulated Mike’s still semi-erect penis into Toby’s ass, then adjusted the legs.

Stepping back, Adam admired his posing. It looked like a perfectly natural fuck. Well, except that Mike’s hands were still zip tied behind his back. And the fact that both punks had suffered major physical trauma. And that both were obviously dead.

As far as Adam was concerned, it was perfect. He’d erased any possible homo contamination from his first necro fuck. Picking up the bag, he headed out the door. Within six minutes, he was off the property, walking bare-chested down the street to where he’d parked his truck a safe distance away.

While he walked, Adam found his thoughts—and his cock—drawn to public restrooms.

The day after Carlos snuffed the punk handyman, Nick got back from LA. He’d found a video editing software package he liked, and he was eager to try it out. By the time Carlos dropped by the office, Nick had already installed it on the system in the back room and was working on something on the laptop in the reception area.

“We’re gonna shoot a new vid,” he said, looking up from the monitor as Carlos strode in the door. “Hey, you changed your look—I like it.”

Carlos had been leaving his face scruffy and unshaven for some time now; overnight, he’d trimmed it down until he had a dark, well-defined goatee outlining his mouth and emphasizing his strong chin. More noticeable, though, was the fact that he’d shaved his head clean. He’d always kept his hair short, so his scalp was already bronzed by the bright Vegas sun. It gave the tattooed ex-con a distinct rough trade appeal; he could easily be mistaken for a Mexican gangster thug.

“Yeah,” he replied, “I figured this’d draw faggots in like flies. So we’re doin’ a new snuff? How much is the commission?”

“There ain’t one,” Nick said, grinning. “We’re doin’ this one on spec. I just wanna see what kinda performance I can get outta this new software. Once I put it online, we’ll make plenty of dough anyway.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “I ain’t worried about the money; there’s lotsa horny fuckers out there who’ll pay a shitload to watch us take out a homo the hard way. I was just wonderin’ if we had to do another scene with costumes…”

“What, you didn’t like that?” Nick grinned. “That was fuckin’ great. But no, this is gonna be just a straight snuff—ha! ‘Straight snuff’—I like that. I’m puttin’ an ad up now. Here, take a look.” He turned the monitor so Carlos could read what he’d typed.

“Two top men, fit, muscular, ages 28 & 32, seeking younger sub male 18-22 for video of intimate encounter. Previous video experience not necessary. Send photo.” This was followed by an email address for an anonymous drop box where Nick could retrieve the replies untraceably.

That evening Nick dropped by the condo. Carlos was in the kitchen when Nick walked in and dropped a manila folder on the condo. “Got one,” he said. “I printed off the info; take a look and tell me what ya think.”

Carlos opened the folder to find himself staring at the face of a young man with stunning electric-blue eyes, a beautiful boyish face and silky black hair. He wasn’t quite model quality, but a few touch-ups here and there would elevate him to that status. “Damn,” Carlos replied, “Pretty little faggot—bet he’s already been reamed out, though. Face like that, though, gotta be kinda dangerous—someone might recognize him. He’s done other shit, yeah?”

“Naw,” Nick grinned. “It’s perfect. Kid’s from some Mormon town over the state line, St. George or someplace like that where they don’t like homos. Only been in town three months. Here, lookit his bio—he’s only done a coupla softcore shoots, and one of them was straight. Ain’t no one gonna miss him, but damn, can you imagine what dudes’ll pay to watch us off the pansy?”

“And he wants to do this shoot with us?”

“You saw the ad, man, he thinks it’s still gonna be kinda softcore. But I sounded him out—he really wants to do hardcore fag shit, so I told ‘im to come by the warehouse tomorrow afternoon and we’ll see what happens.”

From where he was standing, Nick could see the bulge in Carlos’s groin start to swell. “Yeah,” the inked killer chuckled, “Yeah, we can do ‘im. How you gonna set it up?”

Nick paused for a moment before speaking. “You know how to work the hand-held, right? Cause I wanna fuck this one. It’s been a long time, bro, I wanna feel this kid squirm and die with my cock up his ass.”

Carlos broke into a broad grin. “Go for it, man—as long as I get the chance to beat the fuck outta the fairy. That prettyboy face is just beggin’ for my fist.”

“Dude,” Nick said with a matching grin, “By the time we’re done with him, his own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between him and a pile of ground beef.”

It was near sunset on the following day when Carlos pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse that Nick used for some of his video shoots; he’d already converted a portioned-off area into a set of sorts, filling it with cheap bedroom furniture—the bed was fully made, covered with an incredibly ugly comforter crocheted from yellow wool; Nick had found it at a yard sale. He was busy arranging the lights to get the best angles—it was clearly something he’d had prior experience doing, especially in this kinda setting.

Carlos never asked, but he was always curious about how many fags Nick had snuffed before they met.

“Is he here yet?” he asked as he walked in.

Nick was adjusting a tripod with a video camera mounted on top. “No, but he called twenty minutes ago and said he’d gotten off late and would be over as soon as he showered.”

“Don’t bother me none if he don’t shower,” Carlos said.

“Yeah, well, he works at a cheap-ass burger joint over on Paradise while waitin’ for his ‘big break’—probably better if he washes the grease off first.”

Carlos noticed the dossier with the kid’s info, lying on a table near the door—Nick had brought it along. He picked it up and idly started leafing through it. Suddenly he stopped and snorted in laughter. “Tommy LeBone? Really? That’s the name the stupid little shit wants to go by?”

“Yeah,” Nick said with a smirk. “From what I can gather, Tommy is his real name, but he picked the last name because he wanted something to really ‘pop’ in the credits, as he put it.”

They both had a good laugh over that, knowing good and well that there weren’t gonna be any credits on the video they were shooting—and the only things about Tommy that were gonna pop were his bones.

As they were laughing, the electric chime went off, indicating someone entering the main entrance. Nick left the room as Carlos returned the papers to the folder. Knowing what was coming, he peeled the white cotton t-shirt, sticky with sweat, from his furry, muscle-bound torso. For a moment the collar snagged on the catch of the gold chain around his thick neck, but it soon came free. Within two minutes, Nick was back, followed by Tommy.

It was easy to recognize him from his photo, although it had evidently been taken some time earlier. His glossy black hair was shorter now, and the bangs were spiked. He was trying to grow a mustache, but all he’d achieved so far was the effect of a dead caterpillar on his upper lip. A pair of “diamond” stud earrings glinted on his earlobes; the stones were much too large to be real.

The kid was slight but not slim; he was about five-foot-seven or so. He was wearing a white t-shirt silkscreened with the image of Che Guevara in black. Below, he sported a pair of sky-blue polyester satin shorts edged in white that hung down past his knees. Further down, his firm calves, dusted with a dark haze of hair, descended into a pair of red and white Nike Air Jordans.

“Tommy, this is Carlos. Carlos, Tommy,” Nick said, getting the introductions out of the way and letting Tommy look around.

The boy did, and liked what he saw. He didn’t have much—or, really, any—experience with hardcore video and the setup looked professional to him. There were two cameras on tripods, and even in his inexperience, Tommy could see that one was for wide-angled shots, while the other could be lifted off its stand and carried about.

The two dudes he was gonna be in the sack with were both hotter than fuck, too. The one guy with the shaved head—he looked downright dangerous, with his bare broad hairy chest, the gold chain with thick links around his neck, his tight jeans and his black harness boots. He looked kinda mean, too, but for some reason, Tommy found that no less enticing.

The other guy, Nick, had short sandy brown hair with a slight curl in it; there was a faint shadow of scruff on his firm cheeks and filling in the dimple on his strong chin. He wore a black sleeveless t-shirt with the collar torn open about halfway down the chest, revealing a thick mass of body fur in the same sandy-brown shade as his hair. A pair of khaki cargo shorts was secured at his waist with a thick canvas strap serving as a belt; it had no buckle but was kept taut by being looped through a pair of steel rings. A pair of yellow leather construction boots, loose and untied, formed the perfect base for his thick, muscled legs.

Nick didn’t look as mean as Carlos, but he was incredibly well-built and radiated an air of hyper-masculine power. Tommy wanted to service Nick badly, but there was something equally alluring in knowing the older man had the physique to snap him like a twig any time he felt like it, and Tommy wouldn’t be able to prevent it.

The boywhore was vaguely surprised by the way that this subtle air of sex and danger intensified his own lust, but he was young, horny and shallow, and not into introspection. He was twenty-two, and although no longer an adolescent, his hormones were still stimulating his balls into seething sperm factories.

“So, uh, so whaddaya want me to do?” he asked.

“Strip, boy,” Nick commanded, grinning. He kicked off his boots and peeled off his shirt, letting Tommy get a look as his massive chest and his broad pecs, glistening with sweat, his dark nipples jutting into the air. The kid was practically drooling with excitement as he yanked off his t-shirt and dropped his shorts, stepping out of them easily with his kicks still on. Under the shorts, his thick cock and loaded balls were packed into a black and red jockstrap.

“Keep that on,” Nick said as Tommy reached down to remove the jockstrap. “It’ll turn our viewers on to watch ya die—uh, cum with that on…”

Tommy didn’t hear Nick’s slip of the tongue. Carlos had unzipped his fly, pulling his massive, glistening dick out of his jeans. The boy stood staring, entranced, by the huge tube of manflesh. “Fuuuck…” he whispered—he wanted it in him so bad.

A sound behind him made him turn to see that Nick had shucked off his shorts. He stood nude in front of Tommy, his hairy, bulked-out body lubed with sweat and glittering under the overhead spotlights. The randy homo took one look and found himself literally gasping with sexual excitement and anticipation; a dark moist spot formed on the bulge of his jock and grew as the killers watched.

They exchanged a quick grin; it was lost on the fag. They knew he was hooked. He was theirs to play with and torture and fuck. He wasn’t getting out of the room alive—and long before death claimed him, he’d be begging for it.

“Okay, bitch, get on the bed,” Nick demanded. “Up on yer knees, boy; I’m gonna fuck ya like a dog.”

His dripping dick tenting the elastic pouch of the jockstrap, Tommy hastened to obey. As Carlos powered up the camera and focused it, the smooth young faggot posed on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed, the delirious smile on his face showing his happiness at finally getting fucked by two real men—and in a porno, no less!

Just out of the camera’s view, Nick was at a control panel adjusting the lighting. He plunged the room into darkness except for a single overhead spot shining directly down onto the bed, illuminating it—and it alone—brightly.

“Yeah, that’s gonna look hot,” he muttered to himself before raising his voice. “You ready to get reamed, boy?”

“Oh yeah,” the boy moaned, wriggling his body like a dog wagging its tail. Nick approached the bed, his bare feet padding silently across the concrete floor to the section of carpeting laid down for the bedroom set.

“So rough, in fact, that Carlos here is gonna have to hold the camera. I’m gonna want him to get a good close-up when it starts. Don’t worry, though, he’ll still have plenty of chances to let you feel the power of his muscles—especially those big biceps of his. You see ‘em? See those tattoos? Wanna know where he got ‘em?”

With this speech, Nick was almost at the foot of the bed. Carlos had already started the camera, watching the image carefully.

It was perfectly centered on the bed and the bed was hard to lit—harshly spot-lit, with nothing else visible in the surrounding darkness. On the bed, a slim, smooth dark-haired figure on his and knees, his dick stretching out the mesh of his jockstrap pouch, looked behind him nervously; he was startled by something.

He hadn’t realized Nick was as close as he was.

From off-screen, the top’s voice spoke in a bass rumble, “He got that ink in prison, boy. He killed a man. More than one, in fact. That do anything for ya?”

Nick appeared from the darkness, the dramatic lighting cutting his powerful form into bright glints reflecting from sweat-slick muscles and deep dark shadows, some lined with body fur. Gold highlights sparkled in his sandy hair.

Tommy’s eyes grew wide, but his dick throbbed so intensely it was visible on camera. He started to rise up on his knees, but Nick was already climbing onto the bed. “That get ya off, boy? Ya like ‘em dangerous?”

Tommy gulped ominous and spoke with a nervous quaver in his voice. “That’s, uh, yeah, that’s hot man…and y’all can get rough if ya want, but, uh, just don’t do anything to really hurt me, y’know?”

By now Nick was pressed up behind him, his brawny, furry chest against the young homo’s smooth back. Placing one hand on Tommy’s shoulder and forcing the kid back down to the bed with minimal effort, the strong alpha used his other hand to guide the oozing, purple head of his engorged shaft between the punk’s asscheek directly to his pink, pucker fuckhole. With malicious glee, he bent down and whispered into Tommy’s ear. “’Fraid I can’t make that promise, boy. You’re gonna suffer. You’re gonna get hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

The lithe young pansy blinked his gorgeous blue eyes in confusion. “What?” he asked incredulously, “What was tha—AAAIIIIEEE!!!”

Nick had answered the question by jamming his rod up Tommy’s ass raw, with no lube. The camera picked up the huge grin on his face. The way the slut’s sphincter had resisted his tool, and then finally gave way, letting him slide all the way in, grinding his wiry pubes against the boy’s round, firm asscheeks, scraping the smooth skin like steel wool—it felt fantastic. “Fuck yeah,” Nick said, looking directly into the camera (and speaking loudly to be heard over the fag’s wailing), “It’s been too goddam long since I made a faggot into fuckmeat. Bitch is squallin’ too much, though—Carlos, get over here and shove yer dick down its throat, make it shut the fuck up.”

The wide-angle camera was aimed perfectly at the spot-lit tableau on the bed, the boy hunched over on his face, sobbing loudly, the muscular alpha mounting him from behind, thrusting his cock deep in the kid’s ass, then pulling back—but never withdrawing completely—before ramming his rod back in as far as he could.

Suddenly, Carlos emerged from the darkness on the left side of the frame, walking towards the bed with his back to the camera. The warehouse’s metal roof had been baking in the sun all day and the old AC system hadn’t been able to keep pace—beads of sweat were visible, running down the ex-con’s back. It was impossible to ignore the way his tight jeans cradled his ass or the strong masculine tread of his harness boots on the concrete floor. As he got to the head of the bed, he turned his profile to the lens so that his enormous, erect dick was obvious. Reaching down and grabbing a handful of Tommy’s hair, he yanked the kid’s head up off the bed.

The youth’s face was streaked with tears and twisted into a grimace of pain. “P-please,” he begged, stuttering as he tried to make himself understood without crying out in agony, “Pl-please sto-stop…” He drew another shuddering breath before trying again. “Th-this…not-not what I wa-wanted…it h-hurts, please, it-it hurts so b-bad…”

Carlos reached up under Tommy’s chin, placing his thumb on one side of the punk’s face at the joint where the jaw connected to the skull and his fingers in the same place on the other side. A brutal clenching of his powerful hand forced the slut’s jaw to pop open involuntarily.

“Shaddup, ya fuckin’ perverted faggot,” Carlos jeered and drove his massive dick down the kid’s throat. Using one hand to keep the meat’s mouth pried open, the killer stud clapped his other on the back of Tommy’s head. Carlos wasn’t throatfucking Tommy, he was jacking off with his skull.

“Fuckin’-A, dude,” Nick laughed. “Only thing better’n a dead fag is one that took a nice long time to get that way. This piece of meat might live another forty minutes or so—plenty of time for it to die like pathetic garbage.”

“Aw hell, bro, there’s plenty of meat to go around,” Nick responded. “By the time we’re done with it, all that’ll be left is a bleeding sack of human meat. Hey, back off a bit, dude—don’t wanna choke it out this quick.”

Tommy had heard the beginning of the conversation with horror, but his attention was soon drawn to the fact that with Carlos’s huge rod plugging his esophagus, he was utterly unable to breathe. He tried to jerk his head away from Carlos’s hands, but the sadistic killer was so powerful, he didn’t even notice the slutboy’s attempts to break free. The last thing Tommy consciously heard was the remark about living another forty minutes—death from asphyxiation seemed so imminent that he slipped into panic mode. It was his frantic thrashing that had called Nick’s attention to his plight.

Carlos withdrew his shaft from the cunt’s windpipe, leaving his pulsing, oozing head in the fucker’s mouth. Tommy coughed and slobbered all over it, weeping desperately as he tried to catch his breath.

“Oh god,” the kid gasped, “No…don’t…”

Carlos snatched a handful of Tommy’s hair and yanked his head up, staring coldly into the boy’s snot- and drool-smeared face. “I told ya to shaddup,” he said calmly, then slammed his fist into the youth’s face like a piledriver, hard enough to knock the slut’s head out of his grasp. “UH!” Tommy grunted as the blow drove his head to one side; as he brought it back up, he spit out a canine tooth in a dazed fashion.

“Hell yeah, show the fuckwad who’s boss,” Nick chuckled. “Hey, dude, go get the camera. I wanna get a close-up of this.”

Carlos turned and approached the camera, his massive hog jutting out in front of him from his unzipped fly. Nick pulled his cock out of Tommy’s ass, leaving just the swollen head in the cunt’s rectum. The terrified homo felt the slight abatement in his violent rape, and in a semi-instinctive move, made a break for it.

Scrambling like a scaled cat, Tommy dug his Air Jordans into the bedspread and lunged forward, pulling himself off Nick’s tool and off the bed at the same time. Unfortunately for the panicked queerboy, he hit the ground headfirst with his arms out in front of him; he managed to regain his feet and bolt for the door, but he managed to take no more than two steps before Carlos brutally impeded his progress by decking him in the jaw.

Nick had gotten off the bed and was standing beside it, his buff, toned body glistening with sweat under the spotlight; with his enormous raging erection, he was a perfect image of raw masculinity. He was still aware of the camera, but he wasn’t sure if Carlos remembered it—he didn’t want the ex-con to waste the faggot then and there out of rage.

“Send ‘im over here, bro,” he called to the shirtless, booted fagkiller, winking at the camera as he did. Carlos, his arm pulled back, sweaty, tattooed bicep bulging as he prepared to smash Tommy’s face in—literally—held back the blow. “Huh?” he asked, looking up at Nick.

The hardbodied stud nodded briefly at the camera and Carlos caught on, a wicked grin spreading slowly across his goateed face. “Sure, man,” he drawled, “Here ya go.” He gave the slim pansy a hard shove, sending him flying into Nick’s arms. The latter grabbed the punk with his left hand, drawing his right arm up to his left shoulder and giving the unlucky youth a vicious backhand that split his lips.

Grunting in abrupt pain, Tommy wheeled and collapsed halfway onto the bed, but before he could slide limply to the floor, Nick snatched him up again. “Back atcha, bro!” he called, aiming the kid at Carlos. He planted his foot on Tommy’s ass and with a swift kick sent him stumbling back to Carlos, who caught the little fuck in the face with his elbow, dropping him to the ground with a black eye.

The hairy, well-built convict stooped and grabbed the inert form by the wrist, dragging it forcibly to an upright position. Tommy, too stunned to defend himself, or even whimper, found himself flung back at Nick, who dropped his arms and let the flying slut slam into his furry chest face-first.

The slender fairy bounced off his rapist’s firm, massive pecs like he’d hit a brick wall, falling back to the floor—luckily for him, on the carpeted area—where he lay on his back, writhing in pain and moaning feebly. Unable to open his bruised eyes to more than just slits, he tried to focus them on the hulking muscled god towering over him. He could see the thick, firm legs and the frighteningly huge penis that was dripping hot clear drops of precum, but beyond that, Tommy’s vision went blurry.

He could hear footsteps, but there was something wrong with his hearing, the sounds seemed to be fading in and out. There was raucous laughter that at times seemed very far away, but the well-pounded slutboy was very aware of a second pair of legs near him, encased in tight denim and terminating in black leather boots. Like the other pair of legs, Tommy was unable to see any higher than a fat, dripping cock—although with this one, there was a very faint glint of gold somewhere high up in the distance…

In the camera frame, Tommy was laying on the floor, shuddering in agony. Nick, knowing a good pose when it became possible, drew Carlos to his side and put his right arm around Carlos’s shoulders. Carlos, already able to figure out what was coming, did likewise with his left arm around Nick’s shoulders. He placed one boot on Tommy’s flat, heaving belly and with his index finger, little finger and thumb extended, flashed his right hand at the lens, sticking his tongue out and wagging it. Nick grinned delightedly and placed his bare foot on the mesh pouch of Tommy’s jockstrap, pressing down and making the punk mewl and squirm.

“Dude,” he said, “My balls are startin’ to ache somethin’ fierce. I gotta drain ‘em real soon here, bro—think it’s about time to make us some meat. Do me a favor and get this subhuman cumdumpster up on the bed, wouldja?

Leering, Carlos bent down and grabbed Tommy by the throat, then lifted him single-handedly into the air in a show of brute strength. Once again, the little slut found himself unable to breathe. Carlos turned slightly to one side so the camera could get a clear view of the kid.

Tommy was flailing, his Nikes thrashing in midair. The look of bewildered horror on the young homo’s face spoke volumes; it was obvious that the whoreboy couldn’t understand how a hot twofer fuck had become a nightmare of agonizing torture. Gasping helplessly for air, Tommy’s arms clawed desperately at anything within reach. One of his hands clutched Carlos’s right wrist in a panic-fueled grip, the other pawed at the buff ex-con, snatching at the thick links of his gold chain before sliding down the sweat-slick expanse of his chest to curl in his chest hair.

Then Tommy made a serious mistake—he yanked, tearing free some of the sadist’s body fur.

“You goddam motherfucker!” Carlos roared and threw Tommy bodily into the wall, ten feet away. The kid hit the paneled cinderblock with a wet, meaty thump before bouncing back into the room—and into Carlos’s arms. Grabbing his throat again, the enraged killer, his intense anger making his face glow, lifted the dazed, struggling faggot into the air and slammed him down hard on the bed. Wild-eyed, Carlos quickly glanced around and caught sight of a boom—an extendable metal rod for holding a microphone—out of the corner of his eye. He darted for it, snatching it up and brandishing it; Nick had just enough time to catch him and restrain him before he beat the queerboy to death.

Carlos blinked and took a deep breath. “Yeah, man you’re right. But fuck, this one needs to learn the real meanin’ of pain, dude. It’s gotta beg to be put down in mercy before we’re done.”

Nick flashed him—and the camera—a shark-like grin. “Well fuck yeah, bro, that’s the whole fuckin’ point. By the time we’re done with it, its own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between it and a pile of ground chuck. C’mon.”

They walked back to the bed. As they approached, Tommy managed to pry his eyes open. He was still gagging for air, his body shuddering in pain. He looked up, vainly hoping for some trace of pity in the faces of his assailants. Instead, two hairy, muscular killers loomed terrifyingly over him. The overhead spotlight was blinding; their disgust- and contempt-filled faces were lost in the blur of light—all he could see were thick, bulging muscles, dark patches of wiry body fur and two enormous cocks, each wreathed with pulsing veins and oozing out heavy, viscous drops of transparent precum. What little air he could draw into his lungs was tainted with mansweat, heavily laden with pheromones and the acrid tang of adrenaline-fueled testosterone.

It began to dawn on the helpless little fag that he was in the power of a pair of incredibly strong men. Real men, who thought he was a worthless piece of shit. They weren’t going to make love to him; they were gonna use his body however they wanted to in order to empty their cum-filled balls, and it didn’t matter what he himself thought about it.

And they were gonna kill him—but no, that couldn’t be happening. He was only twenty-two; he couldn’t die yet. They were just trying to scare him. They were gonna beat him and rape him, but despite everything he’d heard already, he simply refused to believe that he was looking death in the face.

Then death bent down and spit on him. “Hold the meat down while I stick my dick in it,” the big sandy-haired brute said. “If it squeals, pound the fuck outta it.”

The buff, tattooed skinhead with the face like Satan grabbed a handful of Tommy’s hair again and drew back his right fist. “G’wan and cry, cunt,” he grinned, “Gimme a reason to beat yer faggot face into hamburger.”

Within ten seconds, Tommy knew he was getting beaten into hamburger. It couldn’t be possible, but it felt like the big man’s cock had doubled in size since he put it in last time. This nightmarish, glassy agony that was slashing at the tender, nerve-rich lining of his rectum, it was like nothing he’d felt yet—he’d only been fucked a couple of times before, but it had felt so good. This, this was horrific, unbearable, he couldn’t…he tried, but there was no way…

Tommy screamed and Carlos, with a single pop to the face, broke his nose. The punk wailed in agony, his shrill screams underscored by the low rumble of his killers’ cruel laughter. “This is what happens to stupid little faggots like you,” Carlos jeered. “You wanted to get fucked, you cumsuckin’ cunt? Guess what—you are so fucked right now, dude.”

Tommy’s eyes were blurred by tears and pain; he couldn’t focus clearly on Nick’s face, just inches away from his own, but he could make out the insane mix of hate and lust in his voice, his and the other one…he couldn’t make out the other one…

Carlos had gone to get the handheld camera. He knew it was time for a close-up, even without prompting from Nick—who was enjoying the brutal fuck with such malevolent glee that he wasn’t giving his attention to camera angles at the moment. The muscular, inked convict made sure he got a good shot of the meat writhing and struggling helplessly under the weight of Nick’s buff, toned body. He let the frame linger on Tommy’s smooth, firm, slender legs wrapped tightly around Nick’s waist, the whore’s red and black Jordans kicking uselessly in the air.

Nick was pinning the kid to the bed, his hands grasping the boy’s upper arms. With his hulking body pressing the slut down, Tommy was not only trapped, he was almost completely immobilized, able only to twist his smooth body, from side to side, his firm chest and flat belly scraping against those of Nick. Despite being lubed by a thin film of panicked sweat, the whoreboy’s soft, silky skin was scratched and abraded by Nick’s coarse, wiry chest hair.

It hurt. It hurt so fuckin’ bad—but it wasn’t unbearable anymore. His sphincter had already been torn, his rectum was starting to relax and accept the enormous tube of flesh buried deep inside it, and although his face was swollen and bruised and he couldn’t breathe out of his crushed, flattened nose, the skinhead wasn’t beating him anymore. Maybe—just maybe—they’d be satisfied with a violent rape and let him go after…

Nick glanced up as Carlos approached with the camera. “Hell yeah, bro, good thinkin’. Get a good shot of his face as I wring his fuckin’ neck.” Turning to look down at Tommy, he spit a wad of phlegm into the tear-stained, horror-filled face. “Hear that? Time to fulfill yer purpose. Time for me to use ya for the only thing yer good for—a meatsack to hold my cum. I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out on camera and dump yer sperm-filled corpse in a trash bin so you can be hauled off to rot like the rest of the stinkin’, maggot-infested garbage. Ya like that, meat? That get ya off? No? Then why’s yer little homo dick all hard and throbbin’, huh, fuckwad? Looky here, guys, the faggot’s gotten its dick outta its jock without even usin’ its hands—fuckin’ perv!” Nick said, rolling to one side so Carlos could focus the lens on Tommy’s thick, pulsing cock—obviously oozing precum; the guilty evidence was matted in Nick’s body fur. The jockstrap’s pouch had clearly been pulled to the side in the struggle. “This one wants it. It’s gonna squeal and cry like a little pussy faggot, but it knows its place and it’s gettin’ off at the thought of bein’ put down with extreme prejudice by a couple of hardbodies.”

Tommy shook his head; it wasn’t a conscious reaction—his mind was blank with panic. They weren’t gonna let him go. He wasn’t gonna get out of here alive. His dreams, his hopes, his plans were all gone; even he didn’t remember them in his cold, soul-searing terror. His entire world, his entire life, was focused with pinpoint clarity on the next few minutes. He was a vain, shallow fairy who’d wanted little more than dick and cash in the immediate future, but even he was able to figure out that what he’d already endured was going to seem like a lover’s caresses compared to the suffering about to come.

Nick guffawed. “Dude, you can break its jaw anytime ya want. Beat it to a fuckin’ pulp as it dies. Stupid fuck needs to take a long painful ride to Hell. Long as it lives long enough for me to empty my balls in it, I don’t care how bad ya fuck it up. But make sure the camera stays on the face. That’s what the viewers want; they’ll jack off over and over watchin’ it die.”

As Carlos shoved the camera into the cunt’s face, chuckling in a cold, merciless tone, Nick let go of Tommy’s arms—and grabbed his neck. He smiled gently down at Tommy.

For one single lucid moment, the hate was gone from Nick’s face and Tommy could see the beautiful face of the sexy, dominant lover he’d always dreamed of. Then Nick started squeezing.

It was like a bear trap had closed on his throat. He hadn’t been prepared; he hadn’t had time to inhale, to fill his lungs with air, and he never would again. Nick’s big, strong hands had instantly compacted the unfortunate youth’s esophagus, the cartilage painfully deforming out of shape. The mindless panic came back; it was a kind of white fog that clouded Tommy’s vision and dulled his senses; he never knew how violently he thrashed about, struggling vainly against death.

His frantic, clawing hands first went to those of Nick’s, but finding the latter clamped around his neck with the relentless strength of iron bands, Tommy reached out, clutching desperately at whatever was within reach. One hand beat against Nick’s huge hairy pecs with as much effect as if he was beating against an oak tree; the other slapping at Carlos’s chest and grabbing at his gold chain.

“No ya don’t, motherfucker,” Carlos growled. Transferring the camera to his left hand, he drove a roundhouse punch straight from his shoulder into the side of Tommy’s face, both feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch of bone as the unlucky fuck’s cheekbone splintered under the force of the impact. “Quit tryin’ ta fight it, fuckhead, yer only makin’ it worse.”

If Tommy had been capable of rational thought, he might have wondered how it could have been worse. Even though he was still being impaled by an enormous rod of manflesh that tore at his guts and ground roughly at his prostate with every agonizing thrust, it seemed to be the least painful part of his suffering—his power-bottom soul was starting to accept the dick and revel in the rough, painful rape. Everything else, not so much.

There was a huge ball of fire in his chest, a kind of burning vacuum that ached vainly for oxygen. The slim, smooth homo writhed and twisted involuntarily, instinctively seeking some way to allow air into his burning lungs. Everything from his neck up was a solid mass of excruciating pain, from his slowly-collapsing throat to his pulped and pounded face to his throbbing brain, swelling with oxygen deprivation.

The wide-angle camera had a perfect view; two sweaty males, locked together in violent, thrusting intimacy, the older, more powerful, more dominant man obviously enforcing his sadistic sexual will on the thrashing, shuddering youth. It also caught Carlos’s hulking, half-dressed form as he leaned in with the other camera.

The handheld’s frame was filled with Tommy’s face. It lingered lovingly on the physical effects of the strangulation on the terrified young homo. The kid’s skin was already so battered and bruised that it was hard to tell when his face began to darken, but the swelling soon turned his split lips and broken nose into a grotesque parody of himself. His thin black mustache, already moist with blood that had trickled from his left nostril, all but disappeared as his face distorted from asphyxia.

As the boywhore whipped his head from side to side in panicked denial, the stones in his stud earrings caught the light and created a twinkling effect on his ears that remained a constant as everything above his neck began to blacken.

“You ready to die, boy?” Nick hissed. “It hurt bad enough yet? Ya wantin’ it all to go away?” He paused as Tommy’s head came to a stop, the dying slut looking up at him with an almost insane gleam of hope in his eyes.

Nick chuckled cruelly. “Tough shit. I ain’t ready to cum yet, so you’re gonna hafta keep sufferin’ till I say yer hurt bad enough. Hey, dude, he ain’t fucked up enough yet.” This last was to Carlos, as Nick drew his legs up under himself, repositioning so he could ram his huge erect cock even faster and deeper into the punk’s ass.

As Carlos laughed and repeatedly slammed his fist into the boy’s face, Tommy learned that things could indeed be worse. The wide-angled camera captured several minutes of footage of two muscular men beating and raping a slim, helpless youth, whose body kicked and jerked with every brutal thrust and blow.

After a while, things began to fade in Tommy’s mind; a gray fog descended, filled with a loud, fast banging. Some part of him knew that the banging noise was his pulse, but as his brain began to die, that rational part grew dimmer. Perversely, as the rational grew dimmer, the sensory grew sharper; as brain death progressed, Tommy’s nerve endings became more sensitive.

The pain of impending death started to blur with the overstimulation of his brain’s pleasure center. His cock, forced erect by the pressure on his prostate, was pressed against Nick’s belly; the killer’s wiry body hair scraped against it rapidly with each pump of his pelvis. To Tommy’s inflamed nerves, it felt like someone was taking a belt sander to the tender underside of his prick.

The pain was phenomenal. It felt like the flesh of his dick was being shredded. It felt like…it felt like he wanted to cum.

Nick noticed the change. “Meat’s startin’ to go,” he grinned up at Carlos—and right at the handheld camera. “Lookit the little faggot—fuckin’ perv still wants dick even as it’s gettin’ whacked.”

“Well fuck, man, that’s all they ever want,” Carlos sneered. “Stupid cunts are so cum-hungry they’ll walk right into a death trap if they think they can get some manseed.” He spit in Tommy’s face, then spoke directly to him. “What, didja think gettin’ our loads would turn ya into a real man, ya fuckin’ pile of fagmeat?”

Even if there was enough left of Tommy to formulate a reply, he wouldn’t have been able to say it. His mouth was plugged with his tongue, so thick and swollen that it forced his jaws apart and protruded, a mound of purple-black muscle, from between his cracked blue lips. Thick streamers of drool bubbled from the boy’s mouth, oozing down his cheeks in a thick white froth that gave the appearance that the faggot had just given a wet, sloppy blowjob.

The light was fading from Tommy’s eyes; they were fixed and bulging, the whites turning bloodshot as millions of tiny blood vessels ruptured within. His hands had stopped flailing randomly; the wide-angle camera clearly captured how one was clenched tightly around Nick’s sweaty, bulging bicep while the other was spread flat on Carlo’s belly as if fondling the ex-con’s ripped abs. His legs were still kicking, but not as violently; they drew up at the knee, then straightened again, the heels of his Nikes carving furrows in the ugly crocheted comforter.

Nick hunched and shuddered as he felt his seed boiling up from his overloaded balls, then he went rigid in explosive orgasm. As his powerful hands clenched involuntarily, he crushed Tommy’s throat, the cartilage cracking and snapping like dry kindling as the esophagus collapsed into a mangled mass of useless bloody tissue.

Rational Tommy was dead but sensory Tommy was still dangling in a nightmarish world of tactile torture that was unable to distinguish pleasure and pain. The horrific agony of his crushed windpipe and larynx and his snapped hyoid bone trigged an intense release in his swollen, tortured scrotum. Tommy’s first death load squirted up between him and Nick, smearing as their chests rubbed together in his agonized throes.

“Aw hell yeah!” Carlos cried, pulling the zoom out to capture Nick’s look of rage as he shot his load and Tommy’s blank, shuddering face as he spent his last few moments on earth ejaculating uncontrollably. Without warning, the convulsing punk twisted violently to the side; as he did, another geyser of sperm erupted from his spasming cock. This one jetted into the air, splattering not just over Carlos’s sweaty, hairy chest, but over his face and the camera lens as well, smearing both with milky cum.

With a loud grunt, Carlos returned the favor, a thick, ropy strand of semen spewing in an uninterrupted flow from his erect shaft. The muscled convict hadn’t so much as touched his dick; he’d shot his wad hands-free the moment Tommy’s spunk had splashed on his chest. His own jizz spattered on the boy’s black, swollen face, blending in with the drool.

“Fuck!” Nick cried again, releasing Tommy’s neck.

In a blinding rage, Carlos tossed the handheld down and leaned forward. Grabbing the back of Tommy’s head in one hand and his chin in another, the muscle-bound killer gave the head a swift, brutal twist, rotating it up and back a hundred and eighty degrees. Tommy’s neck snapped, the vertebrae shattering like shrapnel, tearing the spinal cord to shreds. The corpse went rigid as the massive trauma to the nervous system forced one last spurt of cum from the dead kid’s dick; this flew out with just enough force to clear the bed and spatter on the toes of Carlos’s black harness boots.

For a moment, Nick paused, looking down no longer at Tommy’s black, strangulated face, but at the back of his head. Then he slowly withdrew his cock from the corpse. Even in death, the faggot somehow maintained suction in his fuckhole; Nick’s rod came out with an audible sucking sound. Getting off the bed, he stood beside Carlos, looking down at the dead boy. In a shot from the wide-angle camera that Nick edited into the footage, they both remained standing for a minute, admiring their work. The slim young homo’s cum-drenched corpse was still twitching, his black-and-red Air Jordans scuffling nervelessly on the comforter. Both studs were still heaving with exertion as the overheat spot glinted on their sweat-soaked backs; thick pearly beads of jizz still dripped from their cocks—and the meat’s as well.

“Goddam, I needed that,” Nick muttered.

“So did he, stupid little faggot,” Carlos sneered. He leaned forward as if he was going to attack the corpse again.

“Hey, man,” Nick said, “I wanna get rid of the meat here soon. Go splash some water on yourself and cool off; I’m gonna need a hand gettin’ rid of it and its car.”

Carlos paused. “Yeah, dude, you’re right. Hang on.” He headed to the bathroom. After a few minutes, he returned, his body glistening with moisture. In the meantime, Nick had redressed, pulling on his shorts and slipping back into his construction boots. He’d slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on but the deep tear at the neck revealed that his chest hair was still crusty and matted with the dead boy’s cum.

“Grab the clothes and see if you can find any keys,” Nick said. “I’m gonna take the trash out.” He grabbed the corpse by one quivering ankle, just above the Nike sneaker, and dragged the body off the bed. Tommy’s head had remained twisted around backwards; his face his the floor with a splat. Heading out the door, Nick dragged the body along the floor behind him, not minding the faint trail of blood from the kid’s brutalized face; there’d be time to clean it up later. He was excited; he wanted to clear out the meat and get to working on the video.

As Nick dumped the corpse into the bed of his pickup, Carlos gathered Tommy’s t-shirt and shorts. From the latter, he retrieved both keys and a wallet with forty bucks inside. Carlos pocketed the cash; the young faggot certainly didn’t need it anymore. Following Nick out, he headed towards a ten-year-old Ford Focus with a taped-up taillight. Sure enough, the key he’d found fit—it wasn’t hard to figure out; the only other vehicles in the lot were Nick’s truck and his own Mercedes.

Tossing the clothes in the back, he put the car in gear and followed Nick’s green truck out to the highway, where they headed south towards downtown. Traffic was bad, as it always was at this time of day, and the AC in the cunt’s car was barely functional. Carlos soon found himself sweating again. To keep himself calm, the psycho killer imagined the homo piece of shit already starting to rot under the blue tarp Nick had wrapped around it.

After several road-rage-inducing merges, Nick finally took the Las Vegas Boulevard exit, heading south into downtown. Turning west on Bridger Avenue, he made a sudden right into an alley between Third and Fourth Streets, pulling up next to a large industrial dumpster. Carlos parked behind him and got out.

It took less than thirty seconds to hoist the corpse over the edge of the dumpster and roll it out of the tarp. Within three minutes, they were heading south on Las Vegas Boulevard again and within twenty, pulling into the parking lot of a casino located well to the south of the airport. The left the Focus at the far end of the lot, Carlos climbing into Nick’s truck for the ride back to the warehouse.

Some twenty-four hours later, an unmarked car pulled up in an alley between Third and Fourth. It wasn’t able to get very far down the alley thanks to the two patrol cars and the ambulance already in place, surrounding a dumpster. A fat middle-aged man with a shaggy moustache opened the driver’s door while a taller, thinner man of about the same age emerged from the passenger side.

“Hey, Patterson, what’s up?” the fat one asked the first uniformed cop he came across.

“Me an’ Schweitz was just comin’ back from lunch when we heard the call, figured we’d check it out,” Nuñez said. “Whatcha got?”

“Just another stiff,” Patterson yawned. “You can check it out if ya wanna.”

Nuñez headed for the corpse, already out of the dumpster and lying bagged on a gurney. Schweitz headed after him, but paused when he saw the fat detective open the body bag, recoil violently, and zip it back up. He waited as Nuñez returned quickly to the car.

“So?” he asked laconically.

“Not worth it. Another faggot. Damn, you could smell the cum three feet away once I got that fuckin’ bag open. Goddam corpse was covered in the shit.”

Schweitz snorted with disgust. “Who the fuck bothered to call it in?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Nuñez replied, “But I wish they’d kept their traps shut. We got real people out here gettin’ robbed and killed, and some asshole calls in a dead fag. Like I give a shit who snuffed some fuckin’ homo—they guy should get an award, if ya ask me.”

“Yeah,” Schweitz agreed, garrulous as ever.

“C’mon, let’s get back. Central can handle this; they’re good at ‘misplacing’ this kinda file. And anyway, I gotta get caught up on some paperwork. Goddam bureaucrats, always comin’ up with a new way to keep a man from doin’ his job, y’know?”

Still bitching, the fat cop backed out of the alley and drove off, wiping the image of the raped and murdered youth from his mind as if the boy had never existed.

Erik’s eyes watered as he gulped and slurped on the thick cock that was stuffed down his throat. The teenaged boy was already well-experienced in giving blow jobs; he’d managed to get two-thirds of the way across the country by trading sex for rides with men he’d met at rest stop and gas stations.

Suddenly there was a grunt and a violent shudder and Erik felt a hot wet spurt on the back of his throat. His mouth filled with smoky manseed; he swallowed greedily, working his tongue along the sensitive ridge of flesh running along the underside of the engorged dick in a successful effort to milk every drop of cum out of the dude.

“Fuck,” the stranger moaned, “Damn, you’re good. Shame yer headin’ west up here at the interstate—I’d love to have ya suck my dick all the way back to Gallup.”

“Naw, man,” Erik drawled, “Gotta get out to LA. I’m gonna make it big out there. Hey, looks like there’s a rest stop coming up—you can drop me there.”

The driver sighed, nodded, and pulled off into the rest stop. The place was well-lit, a state installation with restroom, an info center—closed at this late hour—and an array of vending machines; it also had separate lots for cars and commercial vehicles.

The car pulled up to the curb. Erik opened the door and the interior dome light illuminated the driver—an older, pudgy man. Erik had barely gotten a glimpse of him when he’d gotten in the car; he definitely wasn’t the kid’s type. Good thing he’d had nice, thick—if short—dick, or the ride woulda been a long, dull slog.

As the older man headed back onto the highway, the boy turned headed for the bathroom. He needed to piss, and he wanted somewhere air-conditioned to wait for another lift. The car lot was completely empty, and the commercial lot there was but a single semi, shrouded in darkness at the far end of the lot.

It was past two in the morning; it might be a while before the right guy came along. And it was hot. Even at this late hour, the dry desert heat lingered unusually late—wasn’t it supposed to get cooler at night?

Within seconds, the boy was standing at a urinal, his long shaft pounding out a steady stream of piss. It took a while to empty his bladder; once he finished, he washed up at a sink, contemplating his appearance in the mirror.

Erik—whose darkest secret was that his real name was Louis; he still blushed at the memory of his mother’s raucous cries of “Louie, get in here!”—was seventeen and certainly looked no older than that. He’d been sexually active for more than four years, and had already learned the power his lean, youthful body had over the desires of others. He had no concerns at all over trading his body to get what he wanted.

The problem was that he’d been born in a small town in North Carolina. The supply of men who were in a position to help him was small; he had to find a place where he could whore himself out on a grand scale. Los Angeles seemed ideal; three days after his seventeenth birthday, he’d taken the cash he’d received as gifts, a small bag of clothes, and climbed out of his bedroom window without looking back.

That was four days ago. Now he was here, somewhere east of Flagstaff, Arizona, almost within reach of his goal. Excited and happy, he stood at the sink and washed the glaze of dried cum from his lips.

He’d included gel and mousse in his bag; his short black hair stood up from his scalp, but his careful sculpting was tousled after his last BJ; it actually somehow emphasized a quality of artless youth. His thick black eyebrows added to the arrogant cast of face; his large blue eyes were those of a spoiled punk used to achieving his every whim with a minimum of effort.

His lithe, boyish body was barely clad in a wifebeater that displayed his trim youthful arms to perfection. The white cotton was so thin that the dampness of Erik’s sweat made it transparent; the dark circles surrounding his erect nipples were visible from across the room. Below the waist, the kid sported a pair of cheap running shorts; the bright blue nylon was short enough to display a long length of Erik’s smooth, firm thighs.

One thing he hadn’t packed enough of—and hadn’t yet stopped to get—was socks. There was nothing between his bare feet and his dark gray Nike Air Ring Leader sneakers.

Bending over the sink, Erik splashed water into his face. He’d spent days servicing fat old men for rides without any release. He desperately hoped the next dude he met would be hot; he was horny as all fuck.

Then the restroom door opened and Erik was confronted with the sexiest man he’d ever seen.

The newcomer was tall, well over six feet. He wore a short-sleeve flannel work shirt in red plaid; it was unbuttoned and spread wide, displaying a hairy, burly torso. Small, oblong pieces of metal were nestled in the dark wiry chest fur; even from a distance, Erik recognized them as dog tags. The stranger’s dark hair was mostly obscured by a khaki green trucker’s cap; his hard, masculine face and strong cleft chin covered with a short black scruff. The muscle-bound stud’s footsteps echoed as the thick soles of his black harness boots thumped across the tiled floor; above them, the stud’s worn, slightly oil-smudged jeans strained against his powerful legs with every movement. Around his narrow waist snaked a thick brown leather belt with a large, elaborate buckle.

Erik could tell at a glance that he was looking at a semi driver. And the same glance took in the enormous bulge in the dude’s crotch, an extended ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran frighteningly far down the older man’s right thigh.

Fuck, Erik thought, please let him gimme a lift. He doesn’t even have to be heading west; I’ll go wherever he wants…

The Trucker only needed one glance himself; he knew fuckmeat the moment he laid eyes on it. This one was young, still in his teen. The experience killer smiled; he could almost smell the abundance of hormones from here. Full of testosterone and cum—even from across the room, the Trucker could see the hard-on tenting the punk’s shorts.

He knew the kid would ask for something—money, a ride, drugs, something to get the ball rolling. He already knew he’d play along; it’d been a while since he’d had a chance drain the rage and sperm that was boiling up the need for explosive release.

But the first thing that needed explosive release was his bladder. Ignoring the boy, he walked straight back to the urinal. Unzipping his fly, he made sure to turn slightly back to the door, standing just far enough back from the urinal that the kid could watch as he slowly extracted the full length of his thick shaft from its tight denim confines. Turning back to piss, he smirked, having seen the slut’s jaw drop at the sight of his tool. Kid was hooked.

He was right, in more than one way. As the buff truck driver stuffed his enormous hog back into his jeans, Erik worked up the courage to approach him.

“H-hey, man,” the teen quavered, hating the lack of confidence in his voice, but unable to control it in the presence of such a hyper-masculine stud, “You, uh, you drivin’? I’m—I’m lookin’ for a ride…”

The Trucker turned and looked directly at the kid for the first time, his ice-blue eyes sliding over the young slut like a butcher appraising a side of beef. Erik was used to the look—but somehow, this was different. This dude seemed to be much more intense about it. And Erik himself was much more responsive. A dark moist circle sprouted at the highest point of the peak in his shorts.

The Trucker saw that, too. He grinned salaciously at the boy. “Yeah? Ya wanna ride, huh? And whatcha gonna do to earn yer way? You got gas money? Takes a lot to fill the tank, boy.”

Erik swallowed the lump he felt in his throat with an audible gulping sound. Just hearing it made the Trucker’s cock throb; his jeans were so tight that the pulsing of the massive tube of manflesh was as obvious to the kid as his own sexual arousal was to the Trucker.

“Yeah,” Erik gasped breathlessly, “I can do that. Fuck yeah, man I can do that as long as ya want.” What it was he could do didn’t need to be stated in any more detail at the moment.

“I’m headed west,” the Tucker said gruffly. Actually, he was headed north, but he’d seen enough of these worthless little road sluts to know they were usually headed out to LA in the hopes of whoring their way into riches and fame.

For a brief moment, he idly wondered how many ended up dead in a ditch. He was personally responsible for at least five that he could recall; they kinda blurred together after a while.

And at any rate, it didn’t matter which way the punk was going. The only way he was gonna go was down, permanently.

For his part, Erik would have gone whatever direction the Trucker was just for a chance to ride his cock; the fact that he was going west only added to his pleasure. “Aw, bro, that’s perfect!”

Abruptly, the Trucker headed for the door, jerking his head. Erik took the hint. In a moment, they were out of the building, the teen’s Nikes padding across the asphalt as he eagerly followed the Trucker’s thick, thumping bootsteps back into the darkness at the far end of the commercial lot.

Trailing like a puppy, Erik’s eyes were glued to the older man’s ass, covered in tight denim like a second skin. He felt as if he’d hit the jackpot—he felt as if, for the first time since running away from home, he was getting a glimpse of what his life held in store. For a moment, he was held entranced by the image of continuous sex with a string of hot buff studs—

—only to walk right into the back of the hot buff stud he was with. The latter had stopped at the cab of his truck. He turned and glared momentarily at Erik, making the boyslut blush with embarrassment.

The Trucker was briefly annoyed, but he smiled grimly at the thought of the punishment he’d soon be meting out to the cunt. Unlocking the door, he swung his large, muscle-bound frame up into the cab. “C’mon,” he said as he headed to the sleeper compartment in the rear. He didn’t bother to look back and see if the boy was following; he already knew. Stupid little faggot was walking into a killing pit with his eyes wide open.

Erik climbed into the semi’s cab. He glanced around the space in the back, marveling at the almost cozy compactness of the rear compartment as the Trucker closed off the front with a privacy curtain. The bunk on the rear wall wasn’t big, but it was big enough to get fucked on, and that was all he was interested in.

Hearing a faint thump behind him, Erik turned around and saw that the older man had slipped off his shirt and let it fall to the floor. The Trucker stood with his magnificent, bulked-out chest bare, with nothing but the dogtags to accent the furry cleft between his bulging hubcap pecs. It was warm in the cab—the Trucker had turned up the temp on AC, not wanting to run the battery low—and beads of sweat glistening deep in the forest of his body hair.

“Strip,” he commanded, looking levelly at Erik.

The kid complied, hurriedly pulling the white wifebeater up over his head and revealing his smooth, flat belly and broad chest, the low-rising pecs surmounted by large dark nipples. Erik then reached down to his slim waist and slipped the running shorts down, wriggling his firm legs to make them drop to the floor. He had to reach inside briefly when they got hung up on his jutting cock; once free of the silky blue nylon, his erect rod bobbed about, dripping clear spatters of precum on his Nike Air Rings.

The Trucker moved his hand down to his groin. Without breaking his cold, hypnotic eye contact with Erik, he slowly—very slowly—slid the zipper down.

Despite his cocky expression, Erik’s voice was hesitant and uncertain. “I-I’m, um, Erik—with a K,” he said haltingly, wanting to see what the older man was doing in his crotch but unable to look away from those captivating, ice-cold eyes. It took a physical effort to drag his eyes away; when he did, they landed on a half-empty pack of Marlboros on a small shelf to one side. The boy’s attention was momentarily diverted. “Hey, can I bum a smoke?

Erik took the hint and kneeled in front of the alpha, looking along the man’s rippled, fur-covered belly. “Uh-uh, face down here,” the Trucker growled, grabbing the punk’s head in his strong hand and physically reorienting it towards his open fly; as he did, he felt the cunt’s hair gel crunch under his fingers.

At eye-level with the open zipper, the teen could see that the massive tube was still semi-soft, bent downwards so the dick was stuffed down the stud’s left thigh. “Haul it out, you little slut,” the Trucker demanded.

Reaching in, Erik felt the throbbing in the thick cock in his hands. He tugged it mightily, slowly extracting the pulsating manmeat. Once he had the full length of the shaft out, it began rapidly stiffening in his grasp.

It was also oozing precum in a steady stream. “Put it in yer mouth, kid,” the Trucker demanded roughly. “I wanna feel you choke on it. I wanna feel my big cum-filled balls slapping against yer chin.”

Erik’s dick swelled painfully at the words, but before he could obey, the Trucker took matters—and the boy’s head—into his own hands. Digging his fingers into the slut’s stiff hair, he jerked forward, ramming his cock into the kid’s gaping mouth. Erik gagged, his eyes watering, as the thick rod, already slick with precum, slammed into the back of his throat; the shaft of manflesh was so large it forced his jaw open.

With his mouth crammed full of cock, the teen slut was in fag heaven. As he let his tongue lovingly explore every thick, pulsing vein wrapped around the enormous tool, he reached up, almost unconsciously, and ran his hands over the alpha’s tight, ripped abs, his fingers catching in the heavy, dark fur in the stud’s treasure trail.

Closing his eyes in erotic pleasure and fondling the older man’s rock-hard abdomen, Erik opened his jaw as wide as he could and did his best to deep-throat the huge, throbbing shaft. It wasn’t enough. Clutching Erik’s head in an iron grip, the Trucker shoved his swollen manhood far down the punk’s esophagus, completely plugging the airway.

Erik began to choke. It was hot as fuck—for about forty-five seconds. Then he pressed his hands flat against the top’s firm, powerful thighs and pushed, trying to pull back from the alpha’s overwhelming throatfuck. He couldn’t.

The kid started gagging. He slapped his hands on the Trucker’s legs, trying to signal him to back off; instead, with a sinister chuckle, the stud gripped the boy’s head tightly and drove his shaft even further into the slut’s trachea.

For a brief moment, as his eyes started to water, Erik began to panic. Then, with no warning at all, the Trucker pulled his tool out, shoving the kid away. Erik fell back on the floor, coughing.

“Get up here and work my nips, cunt,” the alpha commanded.

With the back of his hand, Erik wiped drool from his chin. He looked up at the leering top in disbelief. “Uh, c-can I have a cigarette now? Please?” he asked plaintively, his cockiness skullfucked out of him.

The Trucker paused for a moment, considering, then spoke. “Sure, cocksucker,” he grinned, “Grab the pack and the lighter and bring them here.”

Erik obeyed, scrambling quickly for the pack of Marlboros. Clutching them eagerly, he approached the Trucker. “Light one and gimme,” the alpha demanded. Again, the boy did what he was told, lighting the cigarette, then handing it to the older man before lighting one for himself.

Erik took a deep drag off his smoke but before he got the chance to exhale, the powerful top reached out and grabbed his head again, jerking it forward until the punk’s face was being ground into the stud’s chest hair. “I toldja to work my nips, asswipe,” the Trucker barked.

Suddenly the teen slut found a hard plug of flesh shoved into his mouth. He worked it with his tongue as he breathed out the cigarette smoke, feeling the nipple grow even firmer under the ministrations of his mouth and the hot smoke.

The moment the pressure on his head relaxed, Erik pulled back and took another drag. The Trucker wasn’t happy. “You only done one of ‘em, bitch,” he growled, but the effect wasn’t what he expected; the boyslut’s cockiness seemed to flood back into him with each fresh inhalation of nicotine.

“Naw, man,” Erik drawled, leaning back on the bunk and sucking on the butt with his eyes closed. “I want you in me. I wanna feel that big cock in my ass. It’s gonna hurt like fuck, but I’ll bet I’m gonna remember this one.”

The Trucker’s eyes narrowed as his rage at the arrogant young fag bubbled up. “Remember it? You’ll remember my cock for the rest of yer pathetic little life, cocksucker.”

Erik blew out a huge cloud of smoke and lolled his head languidly, trying desperately to maintain his nonchalance, but his dick told the real story. The dribble of precum from his swollen purple head had increased dramatically; the slit in the tip had widened to allow a steady trickle of transparent fluid to flow.

“Oh yeah,” the horny teen said in a tight voice, shuddering with eager lust. Stubbing his butt out in a half-filled ashtray on a shelf, Erik turned around. Facing the rear of the cab, he bent over, placing his palms flat on the bunk, presenting his smooth bubble butt to the Trucker. Overwhelmed by the hormones flooding his lean, lithe adolescent body, Erik reached back with both hands and spread his rounded asscheeks. “Put it in me, dude,” he moaned, “Use me, dude, fuck me like there ain’t no tomorrow!”

A quiet voice came from behind, shot through with cold humor. “I can do that.” Then Erik felt pressure against his sphincter.

The Trucker grinned as he pushed the head of his dick—nearly the size of a standard cue ball—into the kid’s ass. Reaching over to the ashtray he ground his own smoke out, then grasped the punk’s waist with both hands and started to shove, feeling his enormous tool start to force its way into the youth’s tight fuckhole.

Erik grunted, first with pleasure, then—as the pressure on his ass continued to increase—with surprise. This was followed by a deeper grunt of effort as he struggled to adjust himself to the massive flesh tube penetrating his rectum.

It didn’t take long for the grunt to escalate into a cry of pain.

“Wait!” the boy cried out, “Fuck, it hurts—stop!”

“Shaddup,” the Trucker growled, shoving harder.

Erik squealed in pain as his sphincter was stretched further than it ever had been before. The sound stoked the alpha’s anger; he dug his fingers into the boy’s tender skin, holding the struggling youth tightly.

Grabbing at the bunk, Erik managed to bring one knee up onto the edge of the sleeping surface. He lunged forward, trying to escape the pain of having his asshole torn open. He succeeded in slipping off the Trucker’s massive rod, but then his attempt backfired miserably.

It happened so fast he had no time to react. A powerful arm reached under his and then he was flipped in the air, landing on the bunk on his back, hard enough to knock the air out of him.

He looked up at the Trucker. “Stupid fuckin’ faggot,” the alpha sneered and dealt the punk a quick pair of rabbit punches right to the face. Bright pain exploded in Erik’s face and his head rocked back under the violent blows. Stunned, the youth was unable to protest as the muscle-bound sadist thrust his giant throbbing shaft between the kid’s parted legs.

The moment he rammed it home, though, Erik found his voice in spite of the sudden assault. The agony in his ass was like nothing he’d imagined could ever existed; the Trucker’s cock was so big it literally split the teen’s sphincter, ripping it open in two separate tears. Searing, glassy pain shot through the youth as his colon was stretched out of shape by the thick manmeat that plugged it full.

Erik screamed. He shrieked until his voice cracked as it echoed off the metal walls of the cab. “Yeah, that’s it,” the Trucker grinned, “That’s how a fag like you needs to get fucked, yeah? Take a real man’s dick, you worthless little sack a’ homo shit!”

Wallowing in nightmarish pain, Erik still heard and understood the buff killer’s words. They had no effect on his screaming; the veins wrapping the cruel top’s cock scraped his tender, sensitive rectal lining like barbed wire—his high-pitched shrieks were merely the involuntary result.

The punk’s deafening clamor only emphasized his desperate isolation. The teen fag’s lithe, lean body writhed helplessly, pinned to the bunk by the weight of his powerful assailant’s muscles, impaled on the alpha’s cock.

Outside, Erik’s screams were swept away on the hot night wind, becoming inaudible mere yards from the darkened cab. There was no one around for miles. There were just the two males, alone together, entwined in a painful, erotic embrace of violence and lust.

Again, Erik heard the words, but they seemed to come from some other world, some place beyond the glassy bubble of pain he was inhabiting. They had no bearing on his reality, which—like his ass—was full of cock. Enormous, agonizing cock, plumbing the furthest depths of his guts. Part of his mind that managed to remain insulated from the pain and fear of the brutal rape held a mental image of him at the moment as nothing more than a human sheath, wrapped around a gigantic dick.

He couldn’t understand why his own shaft was fully erect; pain had always made him go limp. He had no way of knowing that he was being stimulated internally by the intense pressure of the Trucker’s tool against his prostate. All the unfortunate runaway knew was that his own dick was traitorously stiff, bobbing in the air as he was being brutally assraped. And it hurt so fucking bad. And it was probably gonna hurt worse if he couldn’t stop screaming…

…but he couldn’t stop screaming.

The Trucker leaned forward, his handsome, erotically masculine face lit from within by an unholy, frightening rage. There was a faint clinking sound as the top’s dogtags danced on the boy’s heaving chest. Erik could feel the older man’s breath hot on his face.

“I said shut the fuck up,” the Trucker hissed between clenched teeth; despite his intense anger, he never mistimed a single thrust of his hips as he continued to drive his shaft mercilessly up the punk’s ass.

“No! Get outta me! Fuckin’ hell, get it out, it hurts fuck AAAHHHH!” Erik screeched. His balled fists drummed uselessly against the Trucker’s broad, rock-hard chest. Suddenly the Trucker twisted away; keeping the kid impaled on his erect rod, he managed to bend down and snatch something up off the floor of the cab. He made sure to hold it up in front of Erik’s face.

It was Erik’s white cotton wifebeater. At first, the shrieking teen didn’t understand.

“I toldja I’d shut you up, faggot,” the Trucker snarled. He started twisting the shirt into a three-foot length of fabric, and Erik understood. He stopped screaming, but it was too late.

“Was gonna off yer worthless ass anyway, punk,” the Trucker sneered, breaking the sudden silence, “But yer screamin’ like a fuckin’ pansy and it’s gettin’ on my nerves. So ya get to die a few minutes early.”

Erik shook his head, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide with fear. He didn’t want to acknowledge the purpose of the twisted shirt in the alpha’s hands, but he wasn’t permitted the luxury of denial. The Trucker lunged; Erik tried to block but the alpha knocked his arms away as easily as swatting a fly. Before he could prevent it, the scared teen realized the cotton band had been wrapped around his throat—and pulled tight.

The fabric was still damp and rank with hormone-laden boysweat. Just before his air was cut off, Erik inhaled a deep, heady musk; the mix of his own sweat and that of the powerful alpha filled his lungs with pheromones before they were permanently sealed.

“There ya go,” the Trucker jeered, “Now shaddup and die, fuckmeat.”

It was worth it, the alpha thought as he jerked the wifebeater brutally tight, it was worth it, just to see the look of panic in the young faggot’s eyes, just to feel the teen’s fuckhole clench his dick in involuntary spasms.

Terror welled up in Erik. This stud, this muscle-bound god—this wasn’t supposed to be happening. He hadn’t hit the jackpot, he was being hurt, being raped…being murdered. Frantically, he jammed his hands up under the Trucker’s jaw, trying futilely to push the alpha away.

The powerful sadist easily shrugged the kid’s flailing hands away. “Die on my dick, you cumsuckin’ pervert,” he sneered, then hocked a wad of phlegm into the boy’s panic-stricken face. “It feels so fuckin’ good when little homo fucks like you kick and die with my cock inside ya.”

Erik kicked and writhed in horrific agony; the tensile strength of the damp cotton band allowed it to sink deeply into the kid’s smooth, soft neck flesh without stretching or tearing. The frantic youth clawed desperately at the shirt, but once it sank in, he could no longer get his fingers around it—and he turned his panic on his assailant.

The Trucker had snuffed at least two dozen faggots—he didn’t keep count—and by now knew the stages of terror, submission and death better than the meat experiencing them did. He recognized the impending explosion of fear and braced himself as the cunt lashed out like a feral cat.

The slim young teen scrambled with a frenetic strength that would have surprised anyone not experienced with the true fear of death; the meat was awash in cold terror and stuck blindly at the Trucker’s muscled mass. His hands, crabbed like claws, clutched at the older man’s bulging biceps before slipping off the sweat-slick skin.

Still mindlessly seeking some way of stopping the choking pain, the clutching, grabbing hands soon landed on the Trucker’s broad chest—and dug in. The kid’s fingers curled in the wiry, almost steel wool-like chest hair and yanked painfully.

Then, inadvertently, Erik opened the door to a whole new universe of pain. He raked his fingernails over the Trucker’s chest, scraping off fur and drawing blood.

Only one person had made the Trucker bleed before, and that wasn’t a good memory. It triggered a heightened rage response.

“Goddam fuckin’ piece of fag shit!” he roared, twisting the cotton shirt so he could maintain the excruciating tautness with a single hand. The other hand he drew back into a fist, then used it to punctuate his speech with the emphasis of a wrecking ball.

“Worthless [BAM] little [BAM] motherfucker [BAM], you still don’t fuckin’ get it [BAM], do ya [BAM]? Only thing yer good for is milkin’ my shaft [BAM] and soakin’ up my load [BAM]. Looks like I’m gonna hafta beat it into ya [BAM], huh, cunt [BAM]? Know what I’m gonna do [BAM] with yer used-up boymeat [BAM] when I’m done with ya [BAM]? Huh? I’m gonna throw ya out [BAM] like a used cumrag [BAM]—yer gonna end up rottin’ in a ditch like garbage, hah [BAM]!”

The third blow was accompanied by a snapping sound as Erik’s cheekbone broke, the fifth with the squelching sound of split lips. On the seventh or eighth—neither predator nor prey was keeping an accurate count—the boy’s nose broke, the cartilage collapsing with a loud crunching noise. And on the thirteenth impact, the orbit of the teen’s left eye fractured into multiple pieces, causing the white of the swelling, bulging orb to hemorrhage blood-red.

Unfortunately for Erik, his youth worked against him; his adolescent body, fueled by raging hormones, was unable to succumb to unconsciousness. He was awake and aware of every blow, and every word. He knew exactly what was happening to him; he just couldn’t understand why.

Even the sex had gone bad; it felt like a massive ingot of white-hot steel had been shoved up his ass, searing his guts out as it reamed his fuckhole. The intense pressure against his prostate was reflected in the intense pressure in his cock; it felt so achingly hard and swollen that it seemed about to burst. And the pressure of the ligature around his throat was reflected by the pressure in his chest, which felt like it had already burst in a fiery explosion that still raged within him.

It was his head that hurt the worst, though; his smashed face was flaming agony, but on the inside…oh my fuckin’ god my head is swelling my tongue I can’t close my mouth I can’t close my eyes…

Taking the shirt back in both hands and tightening it further, the Trucker lowered himself down until he was lying full-length on top of the kid. The lean, smooth teen body writhed and jerked under the weight of the muscled hardman, skin sliding against furry skin on a lube of deathsweat that was being squeezed out of the boy.

The older man bent his head down to whisper in the punk’s ear; as he did so, the stiff black stubble on his cheek grazed the kid’s face, scraping painfully against the boy’s bruised, swelling skin.

“Ya feelin’ me now, boy? Ya findin’ out what it feels like to die, aintcha? Fuck yeah, cunt, I’m gonna cum so hard when you die. Been too long since I wasted a fag—you came along just in time, asswipe. Stupid young fuckmeat, ready and waiting to suffer and die on my dick. Just needed a little tenderizin’ to learn how to accept death from the hands of a real man.”

Erik hadn’t learned to accept his own death yet, but at the moment the terror was overwhelmed with sheer physical pain; as his nervous system slowly began to die of oxygen deprivation, the nerve endings underwent a common paradoxical reaction—they became more sensitive. The slighted touch against Erik’s skin was magnified to the intensity of agony.

Without even breaking the skin, the sharp edges of the Trucker’s dogtags, pressed as they were into the boy’s chest by the heavier man’s weight, felt like knives piercing his flesh. His thick purple cock, already painfully erect, was also pressed between the entwined male forms; as the underside rasped up and down on the Trucker’s large metal belt buckle, Erik felt unimaginable pain that he pictured mentally as the skin being flayed off his dick.

Beneath him, the once-arrogant teen was unrecognizable in the battered, blackened mass of swollen flesh above the cotton band—the latter sunk so deep in the kid’s throat it was almost invisible. Erik’s face was dark and congested, the eyes—both now blood-red with hemorrhages—bulging grotesquely from their sockets, the left one off-center from the shattered orbit. They were swollen to the point he was unable to close them; he was forced to watch his own Nike Air Ring Leaders, just past the Trucker’s shoulders, as they kicked and flailed helplessly in the air.

The boy’s split, purple lips had parted, letting the monstrously swollen tongue to emerge in mass of thick white foam that drooled down the youth’s smooth cheeks. His black hair, stiff in gelled disarray, was wet with the same cold deathsweat that soaked his pits and lubed his smooth young body.

Erik heard the words—barely, and understood them—barely, but they no longer carried an immediacy about them. His brain was dying, cerebral cells going dark by the millions as his body shudder helplessly in the grip of a death that was swiftly approaching—but not swiftly enough.

The teen slut was ready to die. The pain was too much; he just wanted it to end, but the Trucker was right—his youth worked against him; his healthy system had been full of oxygen when his air supply had been cut off.

He could feel—oh fuck, he could still feel everything. This wasn’t supposed to be happening; he’d just wanted a lift and some dick. Now—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, his throat, he could feel is collapsing—

No, no he wasn’t enjoying it, but his cock was so hard it hurt and he didn’t know why, the pressure and the pounding in his head in his cockhead and behind his eyes, that frantic percussion—was that his pulse?—his head was gonna explode and his dick was gonna explode the pressure was too intense—

The enormous cock that had roused such lust and desire in the oversexed teenager was now being wielded as an instrument of nightmarish torture, tearing him open on the inside. With the heightened sensitivity of his dying nervous system, Erik was suffering the pain of impalement in an almost medieval sense as the alpha’s inhumanly massive shaft pounded its way through his torn, inflamed colon and repeatedly embedded itself deep into his tender guts.

The Trucker held on to the twisted wifebeater with both hands, feeling the teen dying on his engorged cock. Tracing the progression of the kid’s brain death was relatively easy for the proficient serial killer; he knew the symptoms from long experience. The meat was nearly gone, but the way the little fuck was gagging and slobbering meant that there was still a spark of human mentality left—

—and the Trucker was so fucking turned on at the thought of abusing and tormenting that spark until it finally flickered out.

“Does it hurt to die?” he hissed, “Good. You earned this, you faggot slut. Only thing you’re fuckin’ good for is catchin’ my spunk, and you’re good for that once—maybe twice. And after I’m done usin’ ya, all that’ll be left it rottin’ meat that I’m gonna dump on the side of the road. Not like anyone’s gonna miss ya, right, fuckwad?”

The boy heard the words, at least the start, but had lost the ability to react. Lack of oxygen had inflicted massive trauma to his central nervous system; he no longer had control over his physical movements. As the Trucker spoke, the kid began to convulse, slowly at first but with a swiftly-increasing intensity.

The sick, sadistic top grinned and grunted with pleasure; this was the best part, the way the meat stroked and milked his shaft as it writhed in its death throes. And this boy seemed to last forever; the slick, lithe, smooth body wriggling and shuddering beneath his hairy weight, the kid’s thick, pulsating dick pressed between two flat, firm bellies. The youth’s arms had stopped flailing; now, they clutched rigidly at his killer’s shoulders. The Trucker could feel the heels of the punk’s kicks digging into his denim-wrapped ass as the boy’s legs tightened involuntarily around his waist.

Erik was gone and what little was left of Louis was encased in a hard red ball of agony—the fiery pain that seared his chest and head, his throat and his ass and especially his dick, had somehow managed to merge into a solid mass of suffering as his body twisted and contorted itself convulsively.

“Oh fuck, fuck yeah,” the Trucker grunted, his face grimacing as he tried to hold back the explosive orgasm boiling up in his tight scrotum. Deep in his boots, his toes curled in an instinctive attempt to brace his hard, powerful body. His arms jerked back almost involuntarily, veins popping out on his thick, swollen biceps; the white cotton ligature sank into the kid’s neck to a grotesque depth.

Suddenly, there was a loud wet cracking sound; the boymeat’s throat had been crushed into a wad of blood, phlegm and mangled cartilage. It was a special kind of pain and it merged seamlessly with the last sensation that the unfortunate youth had to endure—the razor-sharp agony of his own ejaculation.

As the teen spewed a massive deathload over the Trucker’s chest and belly, the boycum matting the older man’s fur, the Trucker gave one last, deep grunt and let go, his hot potent manspunk hosing the boy’s guts and filling his rectum.

The hot wind still swept out of the night, whipping around the silent cab where a man remained locked in a tight, trembling, orgasmic embrace with the corpse of a seventeen-year-old boy.

A few minutes later, when the Trucker was sure he’d drained every drop of sperm out of his huge balls, he disengaged himself from the dead punk. Taking a moment to stuff his still-oozing dick back into his jeans, the sweaty, cum-covered alpha looked down with contempt at the corpse.

There was little left that was recognizable of the cocky teenager. The smooth young face was now a puffy blue mask with a thick purple tongue protruding from the middle of it. The nose was bent and broken with blood trials from both nostrils and the eyes were nothing but slits of white streaked with red under swollen lids.

The dark gray Nikes were quivering as the fag’s nervous system continued to fire random nerve signals; the Trucker knew from past experience that the meat would twitch and kick for an hour or so longer. The little fucker’s dick was going soft, expelling the semen that had remained in the shaft at death.

Grabbing a washcloth from a small set of drawers on the left, the heaving, sweat-slick alpha slipped past the privacy curtain and exited the cab. Walking quickly across the empty parking lot, he headed into the rest room. Under the glaring fluorescent light, he soaked the washcloth and used it to give his torso a brief sponge bath, wiping the teen’s crusty jizz out of his body fur.

Even though his boots thumped just as loudly on the pavement on his way back to the truck as on the way in, the Trucker’s steps were lighter. He felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the workout he’d gotten snuff the young homo. Even his dogtags jingled cheerfully on his chest.

The young ones could take a good, hard beating and still let him work out some while bangin’ and offin’ them—he’d remember that. Oh fuck yeah, he’d remember that.

He was on the highway within fifteen minutes, cruising along with the window down, letting the warm night air dry the dark curly hair on his chest. As the miles flew by, his mind kept turning back to the incredibly erotic way the adolescent slut had died on his cock. The way the motherfucker’s asshole clutched his throbbing shaft, milking it desperately, convulsively as life was choked out of the little punk…

The Trucker found that he had to reach into his crotch and shift his stiffening rod.

He began eyeing the side of the road, wanting to dump the meat before sunup. He was near the center of one of the most godforsaken sections of highway in the state—in the entire country for that matter—but there was no sense taking chances.

He’d seen no other vehicles for an hour when he pulled off the two-lane road onto a wide, level section of shoulder. Beyond the shoulder, the land dipped down into a deep, narrow gully, shadowed with the dry, brown remains of whatever dank vegetation managed to grow when there was water present.

It’d be a long time before anyone found anything tossed down there.

Taking one last look in the rearview mirror to ensure he was alone, the Trucker made his way past the privacy curtain into the sleeper section of the cab. Somewhere in the past hundred miles, the dead boy had rolled off the bunk; the corpse was splayed out face down on the floor.

Standing over it, the Trucker admired the smooth, lean meat, the tender, rounded ass that seemed designed for fucking, the firm, lithe legs spread invitingly apart, with the grey Nikes still on the feet. His cock was straining painfully in his jeans. The feelings were conflicting; he didn’t fuck corpses, but this little fuck still seemed to be asking for it.

“Fuck it,” the Trucker muttered, “Why not?”

Bending down, he grabbed the dead teen and tossed the corpse onto the bunk, still face down. He positioned it crossways with the legs hanging off, as if the boy was kneeling at the bunk and bent down over it. In that position, the ass was perfectly set up for penetration.

As usual, it took the hulking alpha a moment or two to extract his gigantic shaft from its tight denim confines. When it was finally free, it was as engorged and oozing as if he hadn’t just emptied his sack a little over an hour earlier.

Lowering himself down, he inserted his throbbing member into the cadaver and was pleasantly surprised. The meat was cool, but not cold, and rigor mortis had set in just enough to make the mangled dead asshole comfortably firm enough to grip the Trucker’s cock just right.

With a sigh of pleasure, the sick killer inserted his manhood into the boy’s fuckhole until he was balls-deep in the dead teenager. The sigh was soon replaced by deep lusty grunts at the older man plowed his cock into the depths of the cooling carcass. The meat was still limp enough for the dead youth’s limbs to jerk and shift in response to each and every thrust of the Trucker’s huge, pulsating shaft.

It had been years since the Trucker had violated the corpse of one of his kills; he’d forgotten the sweet, easy sensation of a victim unable to resist—and this one, such young smooth flesh, so supple, even in death…

It was too much. The Trucker shuddered violently as he pumped another massive load into the dead boy’s guts, giving the cold meat one last burst of warmth with his scalding geyser of semen. “Fuck! Fuck! Goddam faggot! Dead piece a’ shit!” he cried in a gruff, constricted voice that echoed of the metal walls of the tiny sleeper compartment. Involuntarily, he grabbed the punk’s jaw and twisted it, his arms jerking roughly in orgasmic intensity and snapping the meat’s neck with a gruesomely loud shattering sound.

The only other noises to accompany the perverted desecration of the teenager’s corpse were the joyous jangling of the Trucker’s dogtags and the desolate whistling of the pre-dawn breeze.

For the second time, the Trucker disengaged himself from the dead kid; this time, he used the boy’s shorts as a rather unsatisfactory cumrag to wipe off his dripping cock. As he tucked his fully-drained member back into his jeans, he pulled back the privacy curtain and looked outside the cab—there was still obviously no one within miles.

So there was no one to see him yank the dead teenager out of the cab by his arms; there was no one to see the channels carved in the dirt by the corpse’s Nikes as it was dragged across the shoulder to the gully. There was certainly no one to notice when the muscular hardman, in tight jeans and boots, but shirtless, dumped the dead meat into the ditch; in fact, it was three months before the skeletal remains were found.

It was finally ID’d by dental records. The kid’s mama had made sure her Louie had good teeth.

There was someone to notice that one of the fucker’s Nikes had come off as he was being dragged—the Trucker. When he drove off, he made sure one of his rig’s wheel passed right over the sneaker, grinding it into the gravel on the side of the road.

That was all it took for him to pause. He’d been scrolling through the users on a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior victims. He’d just gotten done with an assignment that had kept him working for eight days straight, and now he wanted to enjoy himself.

Lounging in an easy chair, the muscular stud could feel his cock swelling in the crotch of the faded jeans wrapped around his thick, powerful legs. It was late—about eleven-thirty in the evening. He’d eaten and showered after he’d gotten home, now he was relaxing, half-dressed and horny, looking for prey. Glancing back down at the phone, Joe read the posting.

The post was accompanied by a photo; a torso-only shot. The kid had the slim, lean body of a young teen, with fair skin and large nipples on his smooth chest. Joe threw his head back and laughed aloud. He could snap this one like twig, and this kid was making it so easy…

Joe sent a response and included a shot of his own hairy, ripped abs. He didn’t have long to wait for a reply. “Hey dude ur hot wanna fuck? I got a place.”

Joe knew the place; at least, he’d passed it on occasion. Another motel that had stopped being a viable concern decades ago when the bypass was built and was now only hanging on because there was zero demand for the property and the taxes were rock-bottom. It was the kinda place that was known for drugs and prostitution—and occasional police raids—and Joe wondered how this skinny white twink was familiar with it.

Well, he’d soon find out. He walked back to the bedroom and slipped on a black short-sleeve compression t-shirt that emphasized his broad, muscled chest. Sitting on the bed, he next pulled on a pair of brown lace-up work boots that came halfway up his calves. Standing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grunted in satisfaction at the image of hard, dangerous masculinity that he saw.

The motel was about twenty minutes away. When he got there, Joe parked his vintage Camaro out of sight behind the building. The thick soles of his boots thumped loudly on the pavement as he rounded the corner of the building and knocked briefly at the door of room 21.

The door opened and Joe found himself staring down into the face of a teenager. The kid had short straw-blond hair and a pug nose. His almond-shaped eyes were jade green and almost feline. The boy broke into a broad grin as his eyes roamed over Joe’s well-built physique, and Joe decided the kid had the most punchable mug he’d ever seen, and he had restrain the urge to follow through on it.

“Damn, motherfucker, you the dude from the app?” the kid asked, his face twisted into a leer.

Joe walked into the room. It had been remodeled sometime in the sixties and the furnishings would have been considered cool in a retro sense, if they had been in better shape. As it was, the boxy blonde-wood dresser and nightstands were scarred and pocked with burns; on the other side of the door was a small round table of more recent date, but just as badly worn. This was set with two armchairs with dark vinyl covering the padding; the vinyl had multiple tears covered with tape that didn’t quite match the shade.

In short, it was a cheap shithole. Joe closed the door behind him, slipping the chain on and turning the lock in the center of the knob when Jon turned to the side and switched on the AC unit built into the wall under the window. It came on with a grinding thrum that began to move the warm, fetid air. Glancing up at Joe’s face, Jon seemed to notice the scorn there.

“Yeah, it’s nasty, but they don’t ask no questions when I rent a room here. Other places think I’m too young, but they don’t care here.”

It wasn’t illegal to rent a room to an eighteen-year-old, but the kid did indeed look younger. Of course he could show his ID and get a room anywhere with no problem—but Joe could imagine situations where he wouldn’t want to show an ID. Like this one.

Jon provided more. “You wouldn’t believe the dudes I met here. I did a three-way with my swim coach and the assistant principal of my high school here in this room four months ago.” His smooth, faintly freckled face blushed red. Joe had finished reconnoitering the room, noting the queen bed opposite the door and the slightly ajar bathroom door on the far left wall.

Looking back now at the kid, he noticed that Jon was already completely nude, aside from a thin black strand of rawhide around his throat from which dangled a pentagram in beaten silver. The boy wasn’t scrawny, but Joe’s thigh was almost as thick as Jon’s waist. A fine gold peach fuzz covered the boy’s flat belly, thickening as it descended to a mass of golden curly pubes from which projected Jon’s enormous cock.

It was, in fact, somewhat smaller than Joe’s shaft, but in proportion to his slender form, Jon looked like he had a horse dick. And it was already swelling and stiffening as the teen faggot slut reminisced about his adventures. Shame that Mr. Adams, the assistant principal, had got caught banging that boy on the swim team and killed himself; he’d been an amazing fuck…

Joe smiled with cold contempt and began to peel off his shirt. Tossing it on the floor, he noticed that he’d gotten the punk’s attention. The kid was staring at Joe’s massive pectorals, his large dark nipples jutting above the dark, wiry fur that clustered tightly over the alpha’s chest and swept down his washboard abs.

Jon gave a faint moan as memories of past conquests were wiped from his shallow, lust-centered mind. This dude was the shit. He had to have him; he had to have him inside him…

Joe grinned evilly. It was too easy. The stupid little faggots always made it too easy.

And for that alone, if nothing else, they needed to suffer.

“Not yet, boy,” he sneered at the groveling teen homo, “Ya gotta earn this dick. Get over here and work my nips, bitch. Now!”

Jon stepped up placing his hands on the older man’s rock-hard pecs and running his fingers through the stud’s chest fur—so wiry, it felt like steel wool. The twink put his mouth on Joe’s right nipple, licking the firm mound of flesh. At the same time, his hand came up carefully gripped the other nipple between the thumb and forefinger, pinching it and twirling it.

As Jon worked Joe’s nips, the alpha stud could feel the kid’s long dick, bobbing about so that the oozing head occasionally slapped his inner thighs. “Switch sides, cunt,” he snapped, and Jon obeyed, moving over and gently taking the stud’s left nipple between his teeth.

As he did so, Joe reached down and unzipped his fly. He had to flex his knees and shift a bit to get the full, throbbing length of his huge manmeat out its tight denim confinement, but Jon followed him like a good pig, never letting the hard, erect nipple leave his mouth.

Jon felt Joe’s massive hog flop out and stood back. Looking down, he was stunned to silence; fully limp, the dude was more than six inches long. As he watched in horrified fascination, the enormous shaft began to pulse and swing as it started to get hard. He could already tell, this was much larger than any cock he’d taken in the past.

This was gonna fuckin’ hurt.

And he wanted it so fuckin’ bad.

Joe could see it all, the way lust glazed the boy’s eyes as the kid stared at his dick, the way he panted excitedly. He’d hooked his prey. Whether he reeled it in gently or violently didn’t matter; it was hooked, and it wasn’t getting away.

“Suck it,” he commanded. “Suck my fuckin’ dick, bitch.”

Jon hesitated. “I—you’ll choke me, dude…”

Joe’s grin became more shark-like. “Yeah. Now get on it, faggot.”

Opening his mouth, Jon leaned forward tentatively, but the sadistic alpha wasn’t putting up with it. The slim blond twink suddenly found his head, clamped in a vise-like grip, jerked roughly forward. His open mouth was immediately plugged with thick, throbbing cockmeat as the older stud’s mushroom head forced its way into his esophagus.

“Swallow it, cunt, take my dick all the way down,” Joe grunted as he applied pressure to the back of the teen’s head. Jon started to struggle as his air was cut off. He beat uselessly on Joe’s muscles thighs, still tightly constrained in his faded jeans. The youth’s eyes started to water as the massive vein-wrapped tube of flesh continued to sink further into his throat.

Even in his frantic airlessness, Jon couldn’t help the fuckpig thoughts from bubbling up: my god he’s so deep he’s gonna shoot a load straight into my stomach that’s so goddam hot…

But of course, after a while, the physical intervenes. Jon had been breathing through his nose for as long as he could, but when Joe’s shaft slid over his epiglottis and sealed off his lungs, he literally started to suffocate.

“Worthless faggot twink, can’t even take a real man,” Joe sneered as he partially withdrew his rod—just enough to let Jon gasp for air. Once. After a deep inhale, the kneeling teen felt his head being forced inexorably back down onto the older dude’s dick. He wasn’t ready; he hadn’t recovered enough. “HORK!” he gagged as jets of foamy drool burst out around Joe’s cock and dangled off Jon’s chin in long streams; more foam shot from the boy’s nose and dribbled down his face.

Jon was flailing frantically, his mind awash in fear. He liked a dominant older top, a daddy who would hold him down and fuck him as “punishment,” but this combination of hate-filled abuse and physical ruthlessness was unlike anything he’d ever experienced or anticipated–or hoped for…

The kid’s hands, clawing their way down Joe’s legs, hooked into the alpha’s nearly knee-high workboots, snagging on the laces. The sadist jerked his right leg back and swiftly kicked Jon, the steel toe of the boot driving directly into the teen’s flat belly. At the same time, he let go of the kid’s head.

Jon flung himself backwards with almost explosive force, ending up crouched on the floor at the foot of the bed. His slim, nubile body was heaving and glistening with sweat as he coughed and gagged, one hand around his throat while he braced himself against the bed with other.

Jon’s eyes rolled wildly, like those of a panicked horse; with a sudden effort, they focused on the door beyond his assailant. His reaction was reflexive; almost mindless—he bolted.

His lithe body, with its lean swimmer’s build, was quick, but Joe—despite being well-built—was not so muscle-bound that he couldn’t reach out and snatch the teen as he sprang forward. Clamping his hands around the boy’s upper arms, he jerked the slender twink up and held him, literally kicking in mid-air.

A familiar feeling of pleasure and power swept of Joe. The kid was slender but not skinny; there were muscles attached to his slim frame. His smooth skin stretched tautly over his pecs and delts, his biceps and thighs—and Joe could break him any time he wanted.

“Shut up!” Joe barked and spit in the kid’s face. Jon gasped in shock; he’d never been treated with such utter contempt. He’d met so many guys here—classmates, some of his friends’ dads, the Baptist youth pastor—and they had all worshipped his slim teen body. They’d fucked him, but—but this relentless coldness, this complete disregard of him as a person—this degradation to a sex object—

Jon was a shallow hormone-driven faggot slut, but he wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t know exactly what was about to happen, but he had no doubt it would be bad.

Joe was still holding the twink in the air by crushing his arms against his sides; the longer he was held there, the more Jon suffered. The powerful sadist grinned and drew his prey in closer, peering into Jon’s face. “You sure you’re eighteen? Yer ad was right, ya do look younger.”

Jon had spent several minutes suspended by his arms; he was forced to lift his entire body weight with each breath. He could only stare frantically into the icily handsome face of his attacker and gasp like a landed fish.

“Well, yer ad said ya were and that’s good enough. After all, if yer old enough to die for the government, yer old enough to die soaking up my cum. Ready, boy?”

Jon kicked out in blind terror, his bare foot making contact with Joe’s denim-wrapped inner thigh. It wasn’t as bad as if he’d racked Joe, but it was still a mistake. Joe was enraged. He raised the boy up, then slammed him straight back down onto the floor.

The cheap, thin carpet provided little padding against the concrete slab underneath. Jon hit the floor with enough force to stun him and drive the breath from his body. His lithe, slim form writhed on the scratchy synthetic carpet as he tried instinctively to breathe. Semi-conscious, his eyes rolled back as he jerked and flopped on the ground.

The quivering, moaning punk felt rather than heard the thump of Joe’s big boots on the floor; prying open one eye, he had the impression of the vicious stud standing over him, although all he could see was a ladder of bootlaces up the alpha’s leg. Then he noticed that one foot was drawing back—

The teen faggot didn’t even have time to cower before Joe kicked him brutally in the chest, the steel toe of the work boot impacting Jon’s sweaty, heaving flank and neatly snapping two ribs. The hulking sadist grinned as the boy squealed.

Then he paused and let out a grim chuckle. “And I don’t think you can pay, boy. I think yer gonna run short. And that means I’m gonna hafta take it outta yer hide.”

Jon stared up at his assailant. Joe wasn’t a bodybuilder, but his recent workouts had enlarged his muscles and gave him a powerful, masculine presence that stirred the young slut’s balls despite the pain and overwhelming fear. The twink shuddered in agony, but could still feel his cock throb treacherously, responding to the undeniable eroticism of the sculpted stud who was inflicting such shattering pain on him…

“Ha!” Joe cawed harshly. “I can see yer fuckin’ cock, homo—goddam, fag, yer already oozin’.” He bent over, leering into the teen’s pain-twisted face, knowing the kid’s dick was involuntarily erect. Happened every time. Little fucks always seemed to be surprised when he put them down; they all wanted it—they just didn’t know it until it actually happened.

“No—no…” Jon gasped weakly. He writhed feebly on the floor as the cheap, thin carpet dug into his back and the silver pentagram danced on his firm chest. His lithe, smooth body slick was with sweat. His face, pale with agony, was wide-eyed in bewildered shock; it was obvious that the assault had taken the hot teen slut completely by surprise.

He flinched, instinctively and vainly, when Joe reached for him again. The powerful alpha stooped, one-handedly grabbing the youth by his right arm and jerking him into the air.

The kid screamed as his right shoulder was twisted violently out of place, tearing tendons and ligaments. “Quiet, cunt!” Joe barked, drawing back his free arm and driving a roundhouse punch straight into Jon’s jaw. The slender blond fag grunted as his head popped back. His teeth snapped closed violently, biting through his tongue; blood trickled from his swollen, split lips.

The sadistic top caught his slightly warped reflection in the mirror above the dresser; the glass was cheap but huge, visible from most of the room—including the bed. He smirked at the image of his broad, hard body holding the twitching boymeat aloft. His legs were spread wide, the tight denim jeans highlighting his muscular thighs and his strong calves making his tall laced workboots bulge.

Standing straight out from his crotch, his enormous tool was thick and dark. It throbbed visible in time with his rapid heartbeat; each pulse forced viscous, translucent beads of precum to stand out on the hulking killer’s mushroom tip. His left bicep was swollen with the strain of holding the kid up, but there was no strain in his hard, darkly-scruffy face. In fact, the only sign of effort was the faint sheen of sweat on his broad, furry chest.

In his grasp, the smooth young boy dangled, his arm visibly twisted out of joint. The semi-conscious teen was moaning, his eyes rolled back in his head and a thin trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

And even with all that, Joe noted with cold amusement, the little homo cunt’s cock was still hard.

Jon was flying through the air before he was aware of anything more than a sudden increase in the searing pain in his shoulder. He realized that his buff, powerful attacker had hurled him at the bed; it flashed through his mind in the split second before he smashed into the headboard and vanished into a loud, painful darkness…

Joe looked down contemptuously at the blond youth’s unconscious body, face-down and twitching limply on the rumpled comforter. the kid had landed on his right arm, managing to pop it back into its socket–the torn ligaments and stretched muscles severely limiting motion.

Joe paced around the bed, admiring the teen’s smooth form; the thought of plunging his huge stiff rod into the helpless boy’s fuckhole made his piss slit dilate to allow an almost steady flow of precum to seep out.

As he moved around the bed, Joe grabbed his thick, throbbing dickmeat and slapped against his palm, sprinkling his hot manjuice over the mewling cunt’s body. Jon was slowly clawing his way back to consciousness. Once he was sure his prey was awake enough to comprehend, the cruel alpha spoke.

“Hey, faggot—back just in time to get this party started!” The cold lustful glee in his voice stung Jon’s confused, pain-wracked mind like a whip; the punk panicked, wallowing helplessly on the bed. His right arm was practically useless, nearly as bad as broken.

The terrified teen wasn’t able to actually gain any traction. His bare feet slipped on the slick polyester comforter while his left arm grabbed at the sheets, yanking them into disarray. He kicked and flailed uselessly, the icy fear that chilled his heart growing as the brutal sadist neared, slowly and deliberately.

Jon sobbed in terror, trying to understand what was happening. The thin sheets scratched at his face; the feeling was familiar. A single lucid inappropriate thought slashed through the emotional and physical shock in the teen’s mind—he’d been here, last Saturday. Here, in this room, on this bed.

He’d buried his face deep in the mattress to muffle his own moans as Danny Helms fucked him. Danny was the star of the high school wrestling team and had been since his freshman year. He was incredibly butch and usually juggled several girls at once. He also managed to come across as a serious douchebag as he publicly critiqued the skills of his various bitches.

No one knew that handling the writhing, sweaty, struggling bodies of other young men got Danny hard. He’d been fucking Jon on the DL for a couple of years. And last Saturday had been most recent—here. Right here.

Somehow, the memory of that incredible fuck with a buff FWB added to the teen fag’s confused disorientation. Whatever was happening, it had to be a dream. This couldn’t be real, not here, not for him. If he fought hard enough, he might be able to wake himself out of this nightmare—

—then a hand clamped down on his shoulder, a large hand, hard as iron, and he knew he was awake. Despite his inexplicable and downright painful erection, Jon still found himself pissing in terror. He gulped and started hyperventilating, unable to speak or cry out as he was jerked roughly down the bed.

Suddenly, before Jon realized what had happened, he found that he been maneuvered so that he was on his knees on the bed, his face down on the sheets and his ass in the air, vulnerable and exposed.

And then it wasn’t exposed any more. At first, Jon had a hallucinatory flash, an image of a billiard ball being shoved up his ass. But the alpha’s sharp hiss in his ear dispelled that notion. “Does it hurt, homo? It shouldn’t, you fucking whore—how many dudes you taken, cunt? Huh? How many? I bet you been gettin’ fucked by all kinda horny teen fucks at school, yeah? How many, faggot?”

Joe’s thighs bulged briefly as he flexed his powerful legs and drove his engorged rod all the way in, burying himself balls-deep in the teenager’s torn, penetrated fuckhole. As his wiry pubic hair abraded Jon’s smooth asscheeks like steel wool, his swollen, purple head probed deep into the kid’s intestines.

Jon screamed. He’d been fucked rough before, but he’d never endured anything like this; no one else had been anywhere this huge—and no one had been this brutal. They’d eased their way in, tenderly and lovingly; even Danny, while dominating him and pinning him to the bed, had gone in gently.

There was nothing tender or gentle about this and there sure as fuck wasn’t any love. By the same token, the room was almost foggy with male pheromones given off by their slick, sweaty bodies…

And the searing pain continued. He tried to escape; he really did. His slim but muscled legs kicked back, entangling themselves helplessly in the sheets. His left arm reached up, clawing at the headboard, but all he managed to do was dislodge the fitted sheet, revealing the stained mattress underneath.

Joe pulled out, leaving just the bulbous head of his cock still in the kid’s ass, allowing Jon’s shriek to taper off before he slammed it in again in a single brutal thrust. The writhing teen punk screeched as the massive shaft tore back up through his colon.

“Shut up, cunt!” Joe barked but Jon wasn’t able to comply; the pain was too much. Joe decided to make him obey. He grabbed a fistful of the teen’s blonde hair, and using it like a handle, forced the weeping youth’s face down into the mattress, muffling the sounds of the sobs.

In addition to the horrible agony of getting his guts reamed out by this psycho alpha’s horsedick, Jon suddenly found himself being suffocated. Even though the stud was only holding him down by gripping his hair, the dude was so strong, he was able to straight-arm the young fag’s head deep into the rough, lumpy mattress. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t turn his head, even slightly, to either side.

Joe knew exactly what he was doing. He savored the way panic made the boy’s stretched-out sphincter retighten around the base of his dick. It kept its grip as he pumped his swollen tool into the struggling faggot’s asshole.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the muscled top grunted. With one hand still forcing the teen’s face into the bedding, he ran his other hand over Jon’s trembling back, sliding smoothly along the film of sweat wrung excruciatingly from the kid’s body. “Yeah, that’s what it takes, huh? That what ya need, ya homo bitch? Ya like it when ya can’t breathe?”

Over the panicked pounding of his pulse, Jon could hear his assailant’s taunts—but he didn’t understand them. There was so much pain in his violated rectum that he was aware only of what was happening with his sphincter; the words made no sense. But the lack of logic only made the aggressive rapist’s words even more terrifying.

And even though was happened next was even worse, it took Jon a moment to realize it.

At first, his only sensation was that of relief—the hulking stud let go of his head, allowing him to raise up and gasp deeply, coughing and groaning. Simultaneously, the dude pulled out, leaving the teen homo quivering on the bed, feeling like he’d been raped with a baseball bat. Jon’s abused body went limp like a doll with its stuffing torn out—which was more or less what Jon felt like.

Then grip closed on his shoulder again. This time he was flipped, the brutal alpha spinning his body as easily as if it was a toy. The teen found his self on his back, dizzy from the violent motion. He was almost spread-eagled with his right leg sliding off the bed, the sheets still lightly wound about his right foot.

Glancing down between his parted legs, the terrified youth found his attention focused on two things.

The first was the towering form of the well-built top standing at the foot of the bed. Jon’s attention would have been dragged to Joe in any case, the latter’s hairy, sculpted torso drawing the young fag’s gaze with a gravitational attraction. The toned stud’s broad chest was heaving with exertion and slick with sweat; beads of perspiration glittered in his wiry fur.

But more than that—the dude’s cock, jutting out in front of him from the open fly of his jeans, seemed to be even larger that Jon remembered—although that could have been the pain talking; the helpless teen was still shuddering in agony from the vicious assrape. But the threat implicit in that swollen, throbbing shaft, oozing a swiftly-dripping stream of precum, had a hypnotic effect on the slender young homo.

Joe’s handsome, chiseled face was lit with lust and cruel glee as he looked at Jon’s crotch.

And that was the second thing Jon noticed—his own thick shaft, glistening and slick. It was softening but was still at least six inches above his flat, smooth belly. He vaguely wondered why he’d been hard…

Jon was right, Joe was looking at his cock. He knew the answer to Jon’s question—and he knew that Jon would be asking it.

Again, Joe grabbed his massive tool and slapped it into his other hand, splattering the fuckmeat’s firm, smooth thighs with a sprinkle of glazed manjuice. As the kid whimpered, the cruel alpha smirked and glanced at his face.

The boy’s green eyes were wide and desperate; his blond hair was matted and several shades darker with sweat. Each panicked gasp the punk took was labored; his two broken ribs had not punctured a lung but his lean swimmer’s abdomen still shuddered with pain every time his chest moved.

And then the alpha was over him. Not in him, not yet, but on the bed over him. Jon opened his eyes and saw the huge muscled form poised above him. The sudden realization of his utter helplessness washed over the teen like an ice-cold tide. No one would miss him for several hours yet; even then, no one knew where he was.

That was plenty of time for this dude to hurt him bad. And he didn’t know anything about the guy except that he was hot as fuck—and he got off on hurting Jon bad.

The blond youth stared up into his tormentor’s face, his green eyes rimmed with tears and wide with desperate appeal. “P-please, no…” he whispered in horror as Joe’s cold, hypnotic gaze held his focus. “D-d-don-don’t hurt-hurt me, m-man, please, n-no, fu-fuck no, p-please…”

“Yeah,” Joe whispered back, “Beg, you fucking fag. Beg for your worthless pig life.” Sneering, he cleared his throat and spat on Jon’s face. The boy obeyed; he instinctively knew that it was useless to resist.

He got what he wanted right away. As the slender homo twink shuddered in pain and coughed up his tooth, Joe grabbed his legs and pushed them back, all the way over until Jon’s knees were nearly touching his ears. Lean and limber as he was, Jon cried out as his body was bent double—but it was nothing to the shriek of agony the kid emitted as the alpha plunged his swollen, throbbing tool in full-length.

There was no warning. There was no preparation. Jon had been too dazed by the blow to his face to realize what having his fuckhole so exposed meant—until it was plugged, stretched beyond capacity by an enormous, pulsating tube of manmeat.

Joe grunted and planted his tightly-laced workboots far apart on the bare mattress, making sure he had enough traction for his bulging thighs to support him while he powerfucked the faggot cunt. The fuckmeat coughed and gagged as its chest was compressed into an unnatural position, but the violent ass-pounding soon forced another loud screech from it.

He spit into the teen’s swollen face; Jon felt the hot spittle slide down his bruised, aching cheek. He opened his mouth to scream again; it was reflexive, tied to the pain. What rational mind the tortured blond youth had left realized that more sound would bring more pain, but could do nothing to intervene.

Something did intervene, though. Suddenly, large, strong hands wrapped around Jon’s neck and tightened relentlessly. Jon’s large green eyes, already wide with fear, opened to an extent that was almost comical.

At least, the smirking sneer on the sadistic alpha’s face indicated he found something amusing in the situation as he slowly crushed the boy’s throat.

Jon didn’t—wouldn’t—recognize the glitter in the buff stud’s eye as the gleam of homicidal lust. He clawed at the vise-like grip at his throat as his firm, smooth body jerked and flailed beneath the muscled mass of Joe’s furry torso. His bare feet kicked the air over Joe’s shoulders as his air was cut off.

He still refused to believe he was dying. He hurt so bad—oh fuck he hurt so bad, he was being fucking impaled holy Christ it hurt so much—but his craven pig soul still clung to its youthful sense of immortality. Jon was simple incapable of conceiving of his own death.

And Joe knew it. He grinned in erotic anticipation, and knowing that seeing is believing, gave a sidelong glance at the large mirror.

He was gonna be able to show the teenage fuckmeat its own snuff.

He clenched his hands, feeling the punk’s esophagus give under the pressure. The boy grimaced and thrashed, his ruined ass sliding along Joe’s huge, vein-wrapped shaft. The buff killer didn’t even have to pump…

“That’s it, cunt. Work my dick like a good fag. An’ all it took to turn ya into a cockpig was gettin’ choked a little, huh? Guess what, ya worthless piece of homo shit, I’m just gettin’ started. I’m gonna use you like a cumrag and leave yer corpse like the garbage it is. Ya like that, boy? That get ya off? I guess it does, you sick motherfucker, yer dick is hard as a rock. Fuck, I’m gonna do the world a favor, puttin’ a pervert like you down—ain’t that right, fuckwad?”

Again, Jon heard the words but there was a disconnect from reality. His guts were being reamed out by a huge throbbing mantool; his colon was being wrecked beyond repair, but it was the grinding, squeezing pressure that circled his throat like an iron band of ever-diminishing diameter that claimed his attention.

The teen slut was slender but strong; he kicked and jerked violently in his frantic attempt to break free. He stopped trying to pry Joe’s hands from around his neck and moved higher, feeling the powerful sadist’s knotted biceps bulge as he literally wrung the kid’s neck. Jon was nowhere near strong enough to knock Joe’s arms aside; his questing hands scrabbled even further along the stud’s arm.

Joe was pumping his rod into the meat’s fuckhole swiftly, grunting with each thrust as he grinned down into the kid’s twisted, agonized face. “See, I toldja—” He was abruptly interrupted by the cunt’s fingers, clawing in his face, scratching at the bristles of dark scruff that covered Joe’s cheeks. Sheer terror had overridden pain enough for Jon to force his maimed right arm up as well, but the searing agony as torn tendons finally split and separated was nightmarish.

The dominant alpha grunted; it’d been a while since any fuckmeat had caught him off-guard. His grip loosened for a moment as the kid’s hands slipped down his hard, sweaty body and grasped at his broad torso, tearing out several strands of wiry chest hair.

Jon wasn’t really aware of what he’d done; despite the pain, his clawing had been panicked and unconscious. He was aware of the results, though—the iron band relaxed; he could breathe. Exhaling the foul air in his lungs, he inhaled deeply, sucking in lots of fresh oxygen—

—then his air was cut off again—swiftly, brutally, painfully.

Joe had withdrawn one hand, but had thrown himself forward, straight-arming his other hand directly into the punk’s larynx. He gripped the fucker’s windpipe and squeezed while resting his entire body weight on that hand.

The other hand, clenched into a fist, was pummeling the meat’s face. Joe provided commentary, accompanied by the smacking sound of flesh on flesh.

Each blow landed with the force of an industrial piledriver; Jon’s head rocked back onto the mattress, his entire body flinching as his face was beaten mercilessly and his jaw and cheekbones broken. And at no time did Joe’s pulsing shaft ever ease off Jon’s traumatized asshole; in fact, the meat reacted to each individual blow as if he’d been donkey-punched, his stretched-out sphincter contracting involuntarily—and excruciatingly.

When Joe had finally worked off his excess rage, he clamped both hands back around the meat’s neck. This time, instead of leaning over his prey, he rose up on his knees, still gripping the teen up tightly by the throat. The light was better like this; Joe could see the thin strand of black rawhide snaking out under his hand and the silver pentagram bouncing on the boy’s sweat-slick chest.

More importantly, he could see both of them in the mirror. As he kept his young victim impaled on his enormous dick, he forced the slut’s head to the side, slowly and inexorably, until the fucker could see his own reflection.

And Jon had to. Even though the lids were bruised and swollen, his eyes were still bulging too much for them to close. He literally couldn’t close his eyes.

The lean, smooth teen was forced to watch himself get raped and strangled.

Joe was hunched over the slim, lithe form; Jon’s legs were still wrapped around Joe’s neck and held by his arms. Pinned on his back by Joe’s muscular weight—and a gigantic shaft of manmeat sunk into his intestines—the young fag was helpless. Dominated and controlled, he had no choice. He had to look in the mirror.

At first, he didn’t recognize himself; that grotesque, distorted mask couldn’t be him. But as the pressure built in his chest and the painful buzzing intensified in his dying brain, he could see his eyes swelling, the green irises barely visible as hemorrhages bloomed like red poppies in the whites of his eyes.

It wasn’t true; it wasn’t happening. If he didn’t believe it, it wasn’t happening. He could fight it off. He flailed hysterically, his strong smooth arms beating at Joe’s flanks and chest as vainly as if they had been beating marble–at least one was; the other was weakly jerking and twitching in a pathetically futile attempt at self-defense. And anyway, the alpha stud’s muscled abs were impervious to what feeble force the dying teen could generate.

The kid tried to scream; all he succeeded in doing was forcing his bulging, purple tongue further out between his split and bloody lips, accompanied by a thick gagging sound. But Joe knew the words echoing in the deafening chaos of the youth’s oxygen-deprived brain.

“Scream, faggot,” he whispered—not to the struggling pansy choking in his hands, but to the mirror, using the mirror to look Jon in the eyes. “Pray to yer god, beg for yer mommy—ain’t nothin’ gonna save yer stretched-out fag ass, cunt. Yer gonna die with my cock buried in yer fuckhole, boy, and you like that, dontcha? Lookit yer dick, motherfucker, yer homo shaft is hard as steel—ha!” he laughed triumphantly. “Goddam choke pig, you fuckin’ love this shit! The harder I squeeze yer neck, the harder yer ass squeezes my hog—fuck, dude, you’re really gettin’ off on dyin’, aintcha?”

He turned back to Jon and spit in his face. The shuddering teen couldn’t feel it, but his fading vision managed to capture the glitter of the saliva as it trickled down his blackening face and mingled with the thick white foam oozing from around his dark protruding tongue. Even in his final moments of life, his shallow mind was still attracted to bright, shiny things.

Joe could tell the kid was almost gone. The boy’s arms no longer thrashed wildly against him; now, the lean youth was caressing him, the movement of his limbs, even the damaged arm, became more rhythmic as the slut’s brain died. There was no sense in making the meat watch anymore; it was likely blind by now anyway. But its sphincter was still responding, and that was the important thing.

Joe was close. He could feel the semen building in his balls; he was gonna blow soon. The speed of his thrusts increased unconsciously; he could feel the young cunt’s cock slapping moistly against his furry, ripped abs, splattering them with a continuous rain of precum. The meat was so fucking close itself…

Jon was past conscious thought; his body only responding to the random nerve stimuli caused by progressive brain death. In a final instinctive fight for life, the convulsing youth clawed at his throat again. This time, his left hand clutched at his silver pentagram unawares, jerking and snapping it free. A connected chain of electrochemical energy fired in the teenmeat’s failing grey matter; a last flash of Jon’s personality that was somehow aware of pain—crushing pain in the throat, burning pain in the chest, searing pain in the ass—and a straining, frustrating pain in the cock…

And then there was a loud crunch that ended everything. All the teen’s hopes and fears, all his suffering and pleasure, vanished in a moment as his esophagus was crushed in Joe’s powerful hands, his hyoid bone shattering in his throat as his neck collapsed in the sadistic killer’s vise-like grip.

Rutting and grunting like a bull in heat, Joe felt the teenaged faggot’s moment of death as the homo kid’s fuckhole tightened frantically at the final moment of brain death, forcing a violent spasm from the dominating alpha. The sweaty, muscular stud’s skin pumped out pheromones as his thick, pulsating rod pumped out a solid stream of cum with such force it flooded the fairy slutboy’s guts…

And Jon’s cock was still erect and throbbing, full of his deathload even after death. The end had come upon him too quickly for him to enjoy his final orgasm, but the meat still needed release. Joe obliged.

Tightening his grip even more, Joe dug his thumbs into the base of Jon’s jaws and applied pressure. His biceps swelled and his deltoids bulged as he squeezed and popped Jon’s head off the top of his spine, shattering the young faggot’s neck.

There was another loud crunching sound, different in timbre. It was the shattering of the meat’s topmost vertebra; as bone shards sliced into the the teen’s spinal column, there was another clenching of the meat’s ass—and as Joe spewed another hot load of manspunk into the homo punk’s ass, the boy’s dick finally gave way to the convulsions that wracked his entire smooth slender body. As it bucked like a bronco, the purple, pulsating shaft began to unload long ropy strands of cum that splattered onto Joe’s broad, well-defined chest and matting his fur. The meat was already dead, long past being able to enjoy his deathload, but the convulsions in his rectum milked several more hot wads out of Joe’s engorged tool…

After a while, Joe slowed to a stop and looked over into the mirror. He saw two bodies, still intertwined—his own, sweating and heaving in exertion, but slowly coming under control, and the meat’s, still impaled on his cock, quivering and trembling spasmodically. The boymeat’s death throes were slowing almost imperceptibly as Joe withdrew his cum-slathered rod from the homo’s ravaged asshole.

The kid ended up flat on his back, spread-eagled, with cum and blood leaking out his ass and a sprinkling of his own cum backsplashed across his smooth chest and flat belly. His arms were lying slightly out from his sides and his hands were balled into fists; blood leaked from the left on where cadaveric spasm had made him clutch his pentagram pendant so tightly he’d cut his skin. The cold dead hand still tightly grasped the useless decoration.

Standing over the trembling corpse, Joe sneered contemptuously down at the boymeat. Stupid little sack of shit had gotten what it deserved. He glanced around for something he could use to wipe off his dripping cock and spied a sky-blue bikini thong lying on the floor next to the bed.

What a fucking whore, he thought as he stooped to snatch it up and use it to wipe the oozing cum off his shaft. Tucking his thick tool back into his jeans, he zipped his fly and collected the compression t-shirt he’d worn on the way in. The alpha killer could feel the boycum drying to a sticky glaze in his own chest fur.

Slipping the shirt on, he took one last backward glance at the still-convulsing corpse, covered in glazed manjuice. He knew this one was young; he hoped he wouldn’t have too much trouble with it. When he left, it was nearly a quarter past one in the morning; he made sure he locked the door behind him.

The next day, though Joe was cursing himself and deciding to lay low for a bit. He needed to vet his prey better. The news was full of the disappearance of the seventeen-year-old son of a Republican state senator…

The broad expanse of the Strip, baking under an unrelenting sun, was crowded despite the heat. Carlos had been in Vegas long enough by now not to be surprised; the Strip was always crammed full of people, day or night. He’d asked Nick if he’d ever seen it empty; the massive stud thought for a moment. “Once,” he’d replied. “It was four-thirty on a Wednesday morning in February.”

Well, Carlos was out on it now, making his way through the masses of humanity. He was dressed for attention, as usual—this time, in the interests of drumming up business. He wore a tight white wifebeater that left little of his hard, inked body to the imagination. And even that little was decreasing as sweat oiled Carlos’s sculpted torso, rendering the thin white cotton nearly transparent.

Below, a pair of cargo shorts covered with a camo pattern reached to just above his knees. His calves, thick with muscles, descended into a pair of yellow workboots with thick soles and black leather at the ankles; they were loosely laced and untied. The entire outfit displayed his overwhelmingly well-developed form to perfection and he got lots of admiring glances among the throngs of people—from both sexes.

Carlos had just turned the corner off Desert Inn Road, walking south. He was on the east side of the strip, so he passed the Encore tower of the Wynn casino before he reached the main tower. He was well aware of the sidelong glances his hard, glistening body drew. Good—if he could lure a target, he might be able to get Nick to do another film.

He was living well in the condo Nick had lent him—it was a little ways back, on Paradise, with the master bedroom facing southwest towards the Strip, illuminated by the bright lights and neon that blazed all night long. But he still needed money—the drain on his cash reserve had slowed, but it was still there—so he was out here in the heat.

Hunting for a fag to fuck and snuff. Surely among all these half-dressed, perspiring males, there was someone—

That was when Carlos, lost in thought, bounced off someone walking the other way.

He paused, looking at the other dude, who was apologizing sheepishly. The guy was no older than twenty-five, fit but not buff. He had moderately long blond hair, a large Roman nose and deep brown eyes. He was dressed in business casual in a long-sleeve button-down shirt with thin vertical stripes of white and blue. The dude also wore a pair of beige slacks that weren’t extremely tight but still managed to emphasize his bubble butt. Brown leather loafers completed the look.

“Sorry, man,” he was saying, a distinctive Texas drawl in his voice, “I didn’t see ya there. No offense. Was kinda focused on finding some fun; guess I got a little distracted.”

Drawing himself up to show off his ripped body, Carlos grinned sociably. “Not a problem,” he drawled, “What kinda fun ya lookin’ for?”

The blond dude paused and gulped nervously. “Well—“ he started, then paused, embarrassed. “Well, actually, I’m lookin’ for a stud like you.”

Carlos’s smile broadened brilliantly. “Yeah? For what?” As he spoke, he fondled the bulge growing impressively in his groin.

The other guy noticed. The sight seemed to relieve him and excite him simultaneously. “For that,” he grinned, nodding towards Carlos’s crotch.

Carlos’s smile deepened as his hand worked his groin, pressing down the fabric and revealing the full extent of his massive dong. “I gotta place around the corner if you’re interested…”

The blond’s boyish face reddened in embarrassment. “I-I can’t right now. I’m here for a convention and I gotta go to a couple of seminars this afternoon.”

“What about later?”

The kid thought for a moment. “Well, I got dinner at Gordon Ramsay over in Paris at seven with Les—he’s one of the partners and I can’t ditch on that. But I should be done by ten.”

“Partners?” Carlos asked, “What do you do?”

“Oh, yeah,” the kid replied, as if he’d just remembered something. “Name’s Luke—I’m an attorney. The Civil Law Association has the Convention Center for the whole week, so the firm is payin’ for the trip. The partners are all at the Bellagio, but us associates are all at Bally’s.”

“You’re a lawyer?” Carlos asked incredulously; the punk standing in front of him had a certain professional bearing, to be sure, but he looked like he was sixteen. Even though Carlos knew he was older, he still couldn’t imagine this boy standing up in front of a judge.

“Yeah,” Luke responded shyly. “Well, like I said, just an associate. But hey, one day I could make partner.”

Carlos pondered for a moment—actually, a very swift moment; Luke never noticed the pause. “You’ll be free after ten?” he asked.

“Yeah—well, yeah, I guess Les can blather on for a while. Say eleven at the latest.”

“I can work with that,” Carlos said slowly. “I know—I’ll come pick you up. Outside the main entrance to Bally’s at, oh, eleven-fifteen or –twenty?”

The light of lust in the blond homo lawyer’s eyes brightened like a star going nova at the mention of a red Mercedes convertible. Seeing it had a couple of different effects on Carlos. First, he knew that he’d picked the right fairy to take the brunt of his terrible rage. And secondly, he knew—knew for a certainty—that Nick would want to film this.

Only thing wrong with the setup was that he wasn’t able go full meat-grinder mode on the faggot lawyer leech right away…

The hate-filled ex-con took a deep breath. Self-control, he reminded himself. He could still have his fun, but if he did it on camera, he got paid. A lot. He’d learned a lot about discipline lately; he’d learned that channeling his boiling rage into icy-sharp cruelty was much more satisfying.

But this all passed in a fraction of a second.

“So how does that sound?” he asked Luke. “Eleven-fifteen to eleven-thirty outside the main entrance?”

“Fuckin’-A, stud,” Luke panted, nearly drooling with lust. Carlos noticed a respectable tent pole in the punk’s khakis; little cumsucker had an impressive set of tackle himself. “But don’t park under the portico; it’s always full of cabs. Pull over out front on Flamingo; if you got a convertible Benz with the top down, I can find you.”

They sized each other up for a long, long moment before parting ways. Luke was drinking in the full splendor of dominant masculinity he’d engaged for the evening. Carlos was appraising fresh meat.

Then they headed in different directions, Luke towards his seminar and Carlos to make a phone call.

At exactly a quarter past eleven, Carlos parked on Flamingo Road. He’d driven past the portico, as requested, and managed to find a space at the curb halfway down the block. Above him towered the bulk of the original 26-story tower, now striped horizontally in white and blue. The building was idiosyncratic enough in that it didn’t directly face the Strip. Considered monstrously huge when it opened in 1973, it was now dwarfed by the massive resorts surrounding it.

It was also famous as the site of one of the deadliest high-rise fires in history. Of course, it wasn’t Bally’s back in late November, 1980; it was still the MGM Grand at the time. There were still ghost stories circulating about the eighty-five people who died, but Carlos wasn’t superstitious.

After all, he wasted enough fags to know no one came back after they were made into meat.

He waited with the top down, the heat of the day still radiating from the concrete valley of Flamingo Road. He’d showered and changed; the idea that he was getting ready for a gay date was anathema to his virulently homophobic mind—but that’s exactly what he’d done. Going with the typical sex addict colors of black and white, he’d exchanged the sweat-soaked wifebeater for a new one.

He’d jammed his thickly-muscled legs into a pair of skin-tight black jeans, which were tucked into pair of heavy, thick-soled black engineer boots. Frankly, it was a little warm for the gear—but Nick had insisted. He’d even specified the belt, thick black leather with a row of paired grommets, designed to accept the double posts of the buckle. Since the paired holes ran the length of the leather strap, the belt could theoretically be bucked with a circumference of about two inches.

Nick had been excited as fuck at the suggestion, but he had something else going on and couldn’t be at the condo until midnight at the earliest. He’d told Carlos exactly what to wear, and given him advice on keeping the action consensual until he showed up.

Then, they could have some fun.

According to the dash clock, it was more than half-past eleven when he heard the steady tread of a pair of boots pounding on the pavement to the rear, coming closer.

When Luke came into view, the Texan in him came out more than just in his voice. His figure was somewhat vague until he stepped into the bright circle of illumination cast by a street light.

The lean, lithe young professional had gone full cowboy; from the straw hat with the curled brim to the polished gray roper boots on his feet, he’d shown his country soul. He sported a short-sleeve shirt in Western plaid, blue and white (oddly like the death-laden tower looming above him), with pearl-covered snaps running down the front and fastening both breast pockets.

He’d been meeting with a partner; he was late—the obvious explanation was that he’d changed. However much he felt comfortable in the presence of his employer, Carlos couldn’t imagine that Luke had shown up to dinner in that pair of thin, skin-tight black leather jeans. They screamed “faggot slut” louder than an air horn.

Luke wasn’t stupid—he did have a legal degree, after all—but he was young and naïve. Worse, he was young, naïve and horny, a state which tended to impair critical judgement in males. His lean, lithe body pulsed with hormones that revved him to extreme physical arousal that needed immediate gratification.

If he’d been a little more aware of his surroundings, he’d have heard the harsh ring in Carlos’s laugh. It held a simmering, barely-suppressed rage that found vent in a kind of ferocious glee.

All this was lost on the randy youth. He could only see the sculpted, rock-hard body of the stud in the open convertible Benz. Without any hesitation, he hopped into the passenger seat next to Carlos, making the worst—if not quite yet the last—mistake of his short life.

“Where we headin’?” Luke drawled. This close, Carlos realized this kid had had a drink or two. He wasn’t plastered, but his Texas twang was starting to get out from under him.

“My place,” Carlos replied, his cold grin glittering like steel. All Luke could see was the glittering of a gold chain, the thick, heavy links in looped twice around the buff dude’s neck.

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“We’ll be there in five minutes,” Carlos responded tersely as he sped away from the curb, heading west. When he turned left at the light, the wind whipped the straw cowboy hat right off Luke’s head; the kid’s only response was to laugh giddily.

Owing to a slight delay at the elevator in the condo parking garage, it took closer to seven minutes to get back. Luke didn’t care; awash in erotic anticipation, he didn’t notice much beyond Carlos’s hard, sculpted body until they were actually inside the unit. The living room was nice and seemed to be professionally decorated; the window faced southeast down Paradise. There seemed to be a bedroom on the east side but the master was in the southwest corner.

It was the master bedroom that made Luke inquire about Carlos’s occupation; the large window opened onto the full neon panorama of the Las Vegas Strip. “Dude,” he muttered in awe, “This view musta cost a fortune…”

In fact, the view had lowered the selling price; most people wanted to see the Strip from their living room and preferred to do without the garish lighting flooding the bedroom while they slept. But Nick hadn’t been “most people”—and neither was Carlos.

Carlos silenced the slim blond’s questions by peeling his wifebeater off, the motion accompanied by faint jingling as the doubled gold chain was momentarily caught in the thin fabric. Luke was transfixed, staring gape-jawed at the older man’s furred hubcap pecs. The alpha noticed with faintly amused contempt that the youth’s tight leather jeans revealed his straining cock in more detail than the slut had likely anticipated. Carlos could see every vein wreathing the disgusting faggot’s seven-inch shaft.

Luke’s hands fumbled at the snaps of his shirt; he was so excited he had to pause and take a deep breath before he could regain his coordination. Once he did, though, a single vigorous jerk separated all the snaps at once with a ripping sound. Luke shrugged the plaid shirt off, revealing his firm, smooth chest.

Nowhere near as well-developed as Carlos, Luke had the slim, boyish body of a swimmer—not thin or scrawny, but not bulging with muscles. His torso looked smooth and silky but across his flat belly appeared a faint golden haze that darkened as it descended beneath the waist of his leather jeans.

For a brief moment, they stood facing each other, several feet apart; two bare-chested men in jeans and boots, one slightly older and obviously much stronger than the other. It was the latter who broke the silence. “Aw, c’mon, son,” Carlos drawled with a cocky grin, “Ya gotta do better than that. Get it all off.”

Luke flushed with excitement, his pale skin turning red. Sitting on the bed, he crossed his legs and slipped the gray ropers off, one after the other. He unbuttoned his jeans—the leather clung to him so tightly he hadn’t needed a belt—and slowly slid the zipper down. He kept his eyes on Carlos the entire time, though, as if afraid the buff stud would vanish if he looked away.

Luke was no virgin; his cute little bubble butt had been plowed before, but he’d stayed within his own race and body type, playing around with other twinks. He’d always wanted to get used by a real man, though—and this tan, tatted, rough-trade alpha was nothing if not a real man.

Standing back up, he sinuously peeled his lower half out of the skin-tight black leather, slowly uncovering his firm smooth thighs and his long dick. He wasn’t hung quite as well as Carlos, but seven inches was disproportionately large on his strong but lean frame. The boy looked like he was hung like a horse.

And he was hard; the moment it was freed from its leather confinement, the shaft popped up erect, flinging a faint liquid spray.

Carlos smirked. Little homo was oozing already.

As Luke sat back down on the bed to finish pulling off the leather jeans, Carlos lost some of his complacency. He was gonna have to string this worthless sack of shit on for at least another fifteen minutes before Nick showed up. He hoped he’d have the self-restraint not to beat the pansy cocksucker into submission before then. There was something about the lithe blond youth with his large dark eyes and easy grin that made Carlos want to hurt him badly.

Well, he was gonna do that, one way or the other—but he wanted to do it now.

Gritting his teeth and swallowing his rage for the moment, despite its bitter taste, he undid the double-post buckle of his belt and, sliding it out of its loops, tossed it onto the dresser. Leaving the waistband of his black jeans buttoned, he unzipped his fly. Reaching in, it took both hands to extract his enormous tackle, still semi-soft and pliable.

Luke had finished undressing. Completely nude, he stood before Carlos, once again agape in awe at the stud’s formidable physique. Even though it wasn’t completely hard, the hulking ex-con’s cock was still larger than the blond twink’s. That was something he hadn’t dealt with before; Luke had always been hung better than any of his little playmates.

The thought the he’d entered into a bout well beyond his weight class was just starting to sink in for the horny young lawyer. But all that meant so far was erotic excitement—Luke figured he’d finally found the dude who could fuck him like he needed to be fucked and the thought had him blind with lust.

How completely and utterly correct he was would be driven painfully home in a very short period of time—but Carlos’s eagerness to start the driving made it seem like forever to the killer alpha.

“Get over here, boy,” he said evenly, “C’mere and work my nips.”

Luke hastened to obey.

Nuzzling his broad, innocent face into Carlos’s scratchy, curly chest hair, Luke found himself tracing his tongue along the lines of one of the hardman’s tattoos until it got near the right nipple, at which point he transferred his attention to the large knot of flesh, already hard.

As he slurped, nearly gnawing on the alpha’s hard chest, Luke’s hands reached downwards, groping blindly until they encountered Carlos’s slowly stiffening shaft. Grasping the monstrous tube of manmeat, the eager twink began to milk it, slowly and lovingly.

The homophobic muscle stud grunted unconsciously in pleasure. His mind was seething with rage against the faggot who was worshipping his body so assiduously, but his body itself was responding inevitably to the physical manipulation. He looked at the clock on the nightstand. Eleven fifty-three. Goddam, Nick better get here soon…

Carlos balled his hands into fists, so focused on maintaining his control that he didn’t realize that the slut wasn’t getting down on his nipple anymore. Luke was working his way down Carlos’s broad, rock-hard chest, dragging his face through the top’s rough, wiry body fur.

The alpha lost patience. Luke suddenly found his head in a vise-like grip as Carlos forced the punk down on his rigid shaft, fully erect by now. The golden-haired youth, his gullet completely plugged with cock, gagged and choked; the powerful ex-con could feel the kid’s tongue struggling along the underside of his swollen tool.

He wanted to hold the little shit there till he choked to death on cock. He glanced at the clock; it was less than five minutes to midnight. Where the fuck was Nick?

Again he found the strength to master his rage and, unconsciously, the lust that drove it. It wasn’t just that he wanted to get paid—he damn sure wanted to paid—but he also liked the idea of snuffing faggots on camera. He liked the feeling.

As a result of his association with Nick, the murderous muscle stud was learning self-control and discipline. He was honing his skills as a predator, slowly but steadily becoming ever more dangerous.

He let go of Luke’s head. The slim young lawyer fell back, coughing and drooling, as Carlos sat on the bed. The alpha gave the cocksucker a count of five to recover, then spoke.

“Get over here, boy, and pull my boots off.”

Luke wiped the spittle off his chin with the back of his hand, then advanced eagerly on his hands and knees to Carlos’s feet. The sculpted stud extended his leg, watching coldly as the lean, boyish lawyer crawled up and began caressing his harness boots.

Sliding his hands up the glossy black leather, Luke pulled the cuffs of Carlos’s jeans up. Gripping each boot with one hand on the heel and one hand on the shaft (breathlessly savoring the memory of that other shaft in his mouth), the kneeling blond punk removed them, one at a time. Setting them, almost reverently, off to one side, Luke turned back and pulled off the alpha’s calf-high white tube socks.

Pushing the boy back roughly, Carlos stood up. Reaching down to his waist, just above his jutting dick, he undid the button in the jeans waistband. “Up here, boy,” he barked, “my jeans—strip ‘em off me.”

Luke stood up, his long thin dong swaying and dripping. The youth’s large brown eyes, glittering with lust, looked up into those of the buff, toned ex-con. Misreading the cold light reflected from the killer’s icy blue eyes, he placed his hands first on Carlos’s hard washboard abs, fondling the rippled muscles, before finally grapping the jeans at the waist.

Sinking slowly to his knees, Luke peeled the skin-tight denim from the hulking stud, revealing a pair of thick, sinewy thighs and powerful calves. As the jeans dropped below his knees, Carlos sat on the bed once again, moving his bare feet forward so the thick wad of blue denim could be completely removed.

Standing up yet again, Carlos towered over Luke. The young attorney, who less than an hour earlier had been dining with a multimillionaire partner in his law firm, was on his knees at the feet of a nude, heavily-muscled dude who’d been convicted of killing a man. As Luke stared yearningly at the enormous throbbing hog dangling over him, oozing precum, some part of him wondered what his co-workers and employers would think if they could see him now. Good thing they would never know about this, he thought.

Suddenly, there was a rapping sound. Luke was so sunk in his sexual reverie that Carlos had already turned and was on his way out of the room before the young blond realized what he was hearing.

Someone was knocking at the condo’s front door.

That was bad. What was worse was that the alpha stud seemed to actually be opening it. What the fuck was going on?

There was a brief murmur of voices beyond the bedroom, then the buff inked dude reappeared—and he was not alone.

For a moment, Luke’s heart froze—not in fear, but in desire. The rough trade alpha was strong and sculpted, but the dude who followed him in was even larger and even more well-built.

He had long black hair, almost shoulder-length, with a broad, handsome face and a strong jaw; much like Carlos, the lower half of his face was covered with short dark scruffy fur. His massive pectoral muscles, broader than hubcaps and each crowned with a nipple like tire valve, were displayed to perfection by the vest he wore; distressed patches of black leather, stitched together. It clung tightly to his back but fell open in front, revealing his cut, toned torso.

Under that, the hot stranger wore jeans—not black, like Carlos’s had been, but blue; a very worn and faded blue, they had softened and worn to such a point of soft fragility that it seemed impossible that they could still cling so tightly to the stud’s strong, piston-like legs. Under them, he sported a pair of black harness boots, the three leather straps connected by a steel ring. He seemed to be the oldest of all three of them, but no older than in his very early thirties.

Luke had never risen; still on the floor on his knees, he licked his lips, his eyes darting nervously between the two men. Deep inside, he had a sense of something not being right—but then he glanced up at Nick, rubbing his hand over the huge bulge in his crotch that seemed to go halfway down his thigh, and at Carlos, sneering down at him as his engorged cock leaked precum. He shoved the nagging suspicion away and stood up, his strong but lean body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

“Yeah, man,” the young blond lawyer said cockily, “I can take whatever y’all can give. Come at me, bro!”

Nick’s grin widened to shark-like proportions; he slipped out of his leather vest, letting it drop to the floor as Carlos, glowering with lustful fury, approached the punk. His swollen shaft, already an angry shade of red, seemed to darken as his rage deepened. He reached out and grabbed Luke by the chin and then straight-armed him back into the wall.

But the ex-con was using the restraint he’d learned; he was gonna trust Nick to see that he’d get the chance to show the little faggot exactly what he thought of him. Luke hit the wall kinda hard, but nowhere near as hard as Carlos was tempted.

Luke’s breath was knocked out of him; the muscled stud forced his head roughly to the side so that his left cheek was pressed against the wall. When Carlos asked Nick where he wanted to start with the bitch, the first response was from Luke; a long, shuddering moan of pleasure.

On the few occasions he’d actually appeared in court, Luke had come across as relatively calm and confident; few people who’d seen him in that environment would recognize the cum-hungry fuckpig locked in the powerful arms of an ex-con and greedy for more.

“Does he suck dick good?” Nick asked.

“Naw,” Carlos smirked, “Little homo could barely take my meat.”

“Toss him up here on the bed,” Nick replied, “I’ll ream out his windpipe. Go ahead and plug his boycunt, see how loose the whore is.”

Another red flag for Luke; part of him wanted to protest, to deny he was a whore—he really wasn’t—but the warning was submerged in lust when Carlos whispered into his ear. “Ya hear that, boy? Ya ready to get stuffed fulla manmeat? You better be, faggot, yer about to get more dick than even a worthless homo like you can handle!”

And that should have been a third signal that things weren’t right, but Luke was too sunk in an erotic haze as Carlos manhandled him onto the queen-sized bed to take notice. He liked aggressive tops, but the homophobic verbal abuse was new and uncomfortable to him.

But he never had time to process the thought; suddenly, he was tossed onto the bed, landing on his hands and knees. Before he had the chance to orient himself, he felt Carlos’s large, strong hands grab at his hips, pull him to one side—

—And then his ass was full of cock, more cock than he’d ever had before, more cock that he’d ever thought possible—

—And opening his mouth to scream in startled, searing pain, he felt his head jerked to one side by another hand, this one tightly clutching a hank of his long blond hair, and his shriek was muffled by the enormous, throbbing shaft that plugged his throat completely.

For the first time, Luke felt true fear. He hurt, he hurt like fuck, and not only did these dudes not care—he had no way out. Not that that didn’t stop him from trying.

He had no idea it was all being recorded.

The frame wasn’t quite centered on the action; the three intertwined male bodies were slightly to the right of the screen. A pair of muscled hardmen were sexually assaulting a slim blond youth. One of the buff studs, the one with long black hair, still sported his jeans; he was gripping the kid’s hair and skullfucking him. The head of the other was so close-shaven he looked like a skinhead; he was balls-deep in the blond’s ass.

“Right out on the Strip, man,” Carlos grinned back. “Sez his name is Luke and he’s a lawyer-ha! Gotta hand it to ya, Nick, you were right—it’s a great place to troll for fags. Looks like we got a hot one—hey, stop fightin’ my dick, you stupid cunt!”

This last was directed at the unfortunate Luke who seemed to be doing his best to resist. He wasn’t quite on his hands and knees; Carlos’s tight grip on his hips held him in place, but his spread legs, Carlos planted between them, were kicking out behind him at random. As the well-built ex-con plowed his fuckhole, the punk’s feet were the closest thing to the camera. It managed to capture the way the blond boy’s toes curled with each deep thrust of the top’s massive shaft.

At the other end, it was clear that the one called Nick was inflicting even more trauma; while probably less physically painful than the brutal assrape he was enduring, it was clear that Luke’s more immediate concern was the hulking alpha’s gigantic cock in his mouth. It was also clear by the blond’s darkening face that he was literally choking on it.

He was fighting it, though. Luke’s slim but tightly-muscled arms flailed, his hands slapping against Nick’s rock-hard abs and thighs with all the futility of beating on marble. The fear in his frantic, bulging eyes, streaming with tears, was obvious even at this distance from the camera.

Nick laughed aloud, a harsh, raucous sound. “Fuck, Carlos, I thought ya’d found a good cocksucker. This piece a’ shit can barely take my hog. Whaddaya think—let him breathe or keep chokin’ the bitch?”

“Let him breathe, man,” Carlos said in a cold tone. “I ain’t done with the fucker yet.”

And with that, Nick released his handful of long blond hair pulled his huge dick up out of Luke’s esophagus. The firm, slender fuckboy collapsed, kinda, his ass still held in the air by Carlos’s brute force—and still getting penetrated by the buff ex-con. Mewling in pain, he coughed and gagged, heaving up wads of foamy spittle before he managed to recover himself.

When he did recover, he made a move that surprised his rapists and ensured that the evening would end badly for him. Well, it would have anyway—but he managed to make it worse.

Grabbing double fistfuls of the blankets and sheets at the foot of the bed, Luke jerked mightily—perhaps with more force than he’d ever used in his short life—and shot forward, pulling himself straight off Carlos’s cock.

Luke propelled himself out of the left side of the camera frame, towards the bedroom door. Instantly, both Carlos and Nick lunged after their escaping prey.

Luke didn’t stand a chance; he never even made it to the door.

It didn’t happen on camera; the audience never saw Nick reach out and snag Luke by the hair again, swinging him around and hurling him directly at Carlos. The blond punk smacked into the muscled ex-con with the force of running into a brick wall, his face smashing into the alpha’s hard pecs and stunning him. The only effect on Carlos was to jingle his gold chain slightly.

The effect on Luke’s smooth nude body was obvious—and unexpected; despite his fear and confusion, his cock was erect. It slapped against the angry top’s sculpted thigh, splattering it with inexplicable precum of which the young fucktoy was utterly unaware.

The ricochet bounced the dazed young attorney back into Nick; again his face impacted the firm, furry, unyielding chest of his assailant with more force than was obvious. The fact that he was in the grip of two powerful and sadistic alpha was driven home in a rather literal manner but before he could take stock of the realization, he felt Nick’s large strong hands wrap around his upper arms…and then he was flying through the air.

This time, the camera captured most of the action. Luke flashed across the frame like lightning; the impact with the headboard couldn’t be seen but it could sure be heard—a loud bang, the high, breathless squeal that comes from sudden chest compression, and then Luke flopped back into the frame. He landed on the bed flat on his back, smooth firm legs spread wide, gasping for air—and his rod still erect and throbbing; he was dimly aware that he’d somehow seemed to lose control of it…

“No,” he begged weakly, “I-I can’t…don’t, please…don’t do this…”

“What, you led us on?” Carlos sneered. “Yer a faggot cocktease, huh? Get scared and run when ya see a real man? Too fuckin’ bad, cunt, you ain’t gettin’ outta here till we’re done with ya.”

Luke was dazed with the surreal turn his reality had taken. He’d just wanted a quick hard fuck with this hot alpha stud—no more than an hour of fun. Unable to accept what was happening, he not only heard Carlos’s words but watched Nick stride to the dresser and get the camera before approaching the bed, all with a sense of disorientation.

Closing it all out, he focused on the first solid fact that entered his fear-locked mind—he had a symposium on contract law at half-past eight the next morning. Summoning his best courtroom manner, he tried to become assertive.

Opening his clenched eyes, he spoke. “Look, fellas, you’re both sexy as hell but I gotta—“

And he froze. Both men were looming over him. Two heavily-muscled dudes, their furry chests trickling with sweat, their physiques deepening Luke’s sense of danger; two swollen, vein-entwined dicks, oozing hot transparent precum, dripped onto his flat belly as they towered over him. And one thing he hadn’t noticed earlier—Nick hadn’t just retrieved the camera; he’d also picked up the thick leather belt.

As the slim blond twink watched wide-eyed, Nick handed the belt to Carlos while he focused the camera. “Here,” he said, the cold glee in his voice slashing through the warm air, “Do what ya do, Carlos. Show ‘im what happens to stupid fags who try to run.”

Luke looked up into Carlos’s chiseled face, cheeks dark with scruff and moaned in terror; he registered a moist sensation in his crotch but didn’t realized that he’d managed to piss himself despite his hard, throbbing shaft.

When the buff, tatted ex-con spoke, his tone was low and erotic, almost breathless with anticipation. “How bad can I fuck him up?” he asked. “How much can I hurt him?”

Nick chuckled richly. “Dude, ya gotta leave something to fuck. This is just…making the homo cunt learn its place, yeah? But I think this one’s really, really stupid—it’s gonna take a lot to teach it. Go for it, man, fuckin-A!”

And with that, Carlos doubled the belt, gripping the buckle and the tip together in his right hand. Raising his arm high, he looked down on Luke, cowering on the bed. “Y’know, man,” he said to Nick (while staring Luke straight in the eyes), “I think yer right. This fag’s a lawyer; it’s gonna take a lot of beatin’ to make it learn how worthless it is.”

The camera centered on the youth’s face. His nearly shoulder-length blond hair was fanned out behind his head on the blanket; his face was wan and gray with shock as he stared up at the hulking alpha dangling the wide, grommeted belt over him. Then the cruel stud leered and lunged.

Carlos’s rage broke like a storm. His blow was as swift and severe as a blast of lightning; the sound echoed like a deafening clap up thunder. Luke’s shriek of pain rose above it all. The camera closed in on the red welt, darkening by the second that rose on the boy’s smooth pale flesh.

The grommet-ringed holes had done their damage; blisters were rising in neat, orderly pairs across the wailing punk’s writhing belly.

Another blow, another squeal of agony, another angry red stripe darkening the squirming youth’s skin—this one across his heaving chest. His eyes, wide with frantic despair, flashed a signal the experienced killers could easily read.

Little fuck was gonna try to bolt again. They glanced at each other, and grinned. Piece of shit wasn’t even gonna make it off the bed this time.

Of course, they were right. In the blink of an eye, the cowering, sobbing homo became a whirling mass of panic and flailing limbs; pushed to the edge of reason by the brutal whipping, he clawed at the blanket. Managing to make it to his knees, Luke had a brief moment of hope.

But he was facing away from Carlos. His hope vanished instantly in a shriek of agony when the muscular alpha slashed the thick leather strap across his smooth, vulnerable back. At the same time, Nick’s massive paw reached out and grabbed a fistful of Luke’s long golden hair, using it as a handle to force the boy’s head back down to the bed, face down.

Nick leaned forward, half-kneeling on the bed. Well, on the head. One strong, sinewy leg, still wrapped in skin-tight denim, was planted firmly on the floor, the black engineer boot digging into the carpet. The other was bent, the knee on Luke’s head, pinning it firmly to the mattress.

“Goddam,” the massive stud jeered, “You really are a stupid sack of shit, aintcha?” He paused to frame his shot again. He pointed the camera straight down at the shuddering youth, making sure to capture his own thick, throbbing cock. “Think ya can get outta here without learnin’ yer lesson?”

Luke response was muffled in the sheet, but it was shrill and vigorous. It became more so as Carlos resumed the beating.

With each blow of the belt, Luke’s tender flesh was battered and bruised, blisters rising across his back. And with each blow, the young yuppie professional reverted to an animal, a pig squealing in pain. Thrashing and flailing wildly, he managed to dislodge the sheets; they twisted and billowed around him, hampering his movements.

The fact that he broke free yet again was not only miraculous, it was unintentional.

Nick had shifted his weight; going slightly off balance, he let his fistful of hair go to brace his hand against the headboard. At that moment, Luke happened to jerk backwards, an instinctive flinching from the inevitable next blow from his tormentor—and ended up slipping to the floor, dragging the wadded sheets with him.

As Carlos backed up, his sculpted, buff body slick with sweat, Nick popped up off the bed. They both glared down at the twisted boy on the floor. Carlos glanced up at Nick—and paused. Then he spoke to Luke, awe and reverence obvious in his voice. “Dude, you fucked up. He toldja to take what ya got comin’—fuckin’-A, man, I think ya got more comin’ now!”

He’d seen the light of sexual rage in Nick’s eyes and recognized it for what it was; he acknowledged the driving force of will behind it—and determined to be worthy of it when he was on camera.

Nick, for his part, focused both his lens and his fury on the soft lean blond boy beneath him. Normally cool and in control, there was something about the handsome young lawyer that triggered a rage response in the Herculean stud. “Motherfucker,” he hissed, “Motherfuckin’ faggot cunt, yer gonna regret that…”

The icy tone of the threat slashed through the red haze of pain and terror clouding Luke’s mind. He looked up at the huge alpha towering over him. Nick’s red, swollen cock was dangling over his belly, oozing hot transparent drops. Even in his pain and fear, the brutalized white-collar pansy was attracted to the engorged shaft of his assailant. And while the blond boy’s stunned brain was unable to make the link between lust and violence, it was obvious that his erect tool had made it and responded enthusiastically.

Still clutching the camera, Nick raised his boot, hanging it over Luke’s face; the kid had just enough time to realize what was gonna happen. “No!” he squealed, “Fuck, no, please!”

He wasn’t fast enough to get his arms up to block the blow. Nick drove his foot down, his hard thigh muscles pumping like a piston as the thick black sole slammed into Luke’s face. The camera centered on the boot, grinding into the kid’s face. Luke wailed and writhed, his arms slapping aimlessly at Nick’s legs and his kicking feet making occasional contact with Carlos’s.

Holding the camera with remarkable steadiness, the hugely-developed sadist filmed himself stomping the young lawyer’s face into an unrecognizable pulp. The sound of the occasional crunch of bone as his nose or a cheekbone was broken was accompanied by a shrill shriek, but otherwise Luke was unable to either protest or plead.

After venting his anger on the helpless blond twink, Nick stepped back, muscular flanks heaving with exertion. His furry chest was slick with sweat, much as Carlos’s was, after the energetic beating he’d delivered. The scent of mansweat filled the room; acrid with testosterone and adrenaline.

All it needed was the aroma of mansex, and Nick knew it. “Ok, man,” he said to Carlos, “Time to get the money shot. Ya ready to waste this worthless piece of meat?”

His desire was clear to Nick—and the camera. He focused the lens on Carlos’s face before replying. “Fuckin’ fag’s gotta die gettin’ plowed like a real man—I mean, all he’s been fucked by is other fags, huh? So he’s gotta learn what a real man feels like as he dies. Strangle him with yer belt, dude, choke ‘im out so he dies on yer dick!”

Carlos had no idea that he shuddered with pleasure at the suggestion; he simply bent down and grabbed Luke by an arm and a legs and threw him back onto the bed like a bag of garbage. The moaning, mewling cunt landed on his back crossways on the now-bare mattress so that his ass was just on the edge at the side of the bed. Carlos approached the bed slowly, holding the wide leather belt in one hand and his enormous, throbbing cock in the other.

Mustering just enough of his feeble strength, Luke raised his head. Opening his swollen, bruised eyes, he could dimly see the muscle-bound killer approaching him—his eyes naturally attracted to the sparkle of gold from the chain around Carlos’s neck. Despite the blurriness of his vision, the terrified faggot could see the powerful alpha with his weapons in his hands—one to fuck, and one to kill.

And for the first time—in spite of all the evidence, in spite of everything he’d heard; hell, in spite of everything he’d suffered—Luke finally realized that he was about to die. He didn’t know why, but he knew how. He didn’t know when—but he knew it would be soon.

But first, he was gonna get fucked.

Nick bent down as Carlos forced Luke’s legs apart, zooming in as the ex-con’s long, thick, pulsing cock impaled the blond twink’s ass. The moment the huge purple mushroom tip penetrated Luke’s fuckhole, splitting the sphincter, the kid started screaming again. The high-pitched shrieks torn from the writhing slut echoed from the wall; Carlos looked worriedly at Nick. “Hey, man, do we need to shut him up?” he asked.

“No rush,” Nick drawled, “This place is pretty soundproof.” He chuckled darkly. “Trust me on that, dude—the meat can scream his worthless life out and ain’t no one gonna hear ‘im in here.”

Luke heard every word. His response wasn’t flight or fight; he froze in terror, his screaming dulled to a deep, visceral, gasping moan. As he lay on his back, being beaten and raped by a pair of powerful sadists, he glanced up at the ceiling and had a brief moment of clarity.

The ceiling, like the walls, was painted white, but Luke was seeing a rainbow of color parade across his vision. He wasn’t delusional, he wasn’t hallucinating—not yet, at any rate; he was seeing lights reflected off the Strip. That was when lucidity kicked in.

He was in Las Vegas. He was here for a legal convention, he had an expense account, everyone had told him how much fun—and sex—he would have in Sin City…

That had been his reality until about forty minutes ago; now, there was no way to reconcile that to the universe of torture he currently inhabited. The excruciating agony, the sheer cold horror he’d suffered in that time had damaged him mentally as well as physically.

Not that it mattered. The terrified twink fairy had heard the words, but hadn’t experienced the reality of death; his self-centered core would deny the very possibility of his own death until it happened.

And both Carlos and Nick knew it. It was time Luke knew it too.

“Go for it, buddy,” Nick said, shuddering with excitement, “G’wan and fuck the fag to death. Choke ‘im out as he chokes yer chicken, man. Show ‘im how a real man handles worthless faggot cockpigs!”

Carlos needed little encouraging; still convinced of his own heterosexual superiority, his shark-like grin grew as he bent down. Grabbing a handful of long blond hair, he lifted Luke’s head and slipped the belt under his neck, then looped it over and around the front of the throat. The punk’s eyes widened even more; his hands instinctively came up to clutch at the thick leather strap.

“Leave it alone, motherfucker,” Carlos snarled as he slipped back off the bed and placed himself between the kid’s legs, “or I’ll break your fingers, or arms. Or both.” With a shuddering gasp, Luke’s arms fell limply to his sides.

Not that it mattered—Carlos gave the shocked queerboy something else to occupy his mind—and his ass. With no warning, the buff, inked ex-con lunged, ramming his thick, glistening pole in full-length in a single, powerful, agonizing thrust. He didn’t stop feeding his vein-wrapped shaft into the shrieking pansy’s boycunt until his wiry pubes were digging at Luke’s smooth, flexing asscheeks.

Pulling back out just far enough to keep his massive, spear-shaped head still planted firmly in Luke’s colon, he drove home another thrust, more powerful than the last had been. Nick recognized what was happening and backed away, panning the lens out to allow a wider view, from which it was easy to see the Carlos was literally fucking Luke further onto the bed.

Once he’d gotten his fuckmeat into the right position, Carlos picked up the loose ends of the belt; Luke had been too busy flailing his hands against the alpha’s rock-hard chest in a vain attempt to stop the rape to try to remove the strap.

Now, it was too late. By this point, the torture, both mental and physical, had reduced Luke to a nearly catatonic state—but even so, there was still enough pig lust in him to feel his own cock, bizarrely erect throughout the entire ordeal, throb a little harder as Carlos swam into view through tear-streaked eyes. The hulking alpha with his tatted, well-defined chest was so close, Luke could smell his mansweat, thick with hormones. Cutting through his mental haze, the cold metallic glitter of Carlos’s gold chain and cold eyes caught Luke’s fragmented attention.

And then he wasn’t able to breathe anymore.

It wasn’t just that, though, it was the excruciating, crushing pain of a two-inch-wide leather strap compressing his neck with nightmarish force.

The camera captured the twink’s panic as his ruined face began to swell and darken. As the homo punk choked, his fingers scrambled frenetically at the belt wrapped around his throat; his nails dug into the black leather—and into his own flesh.

Luke wasn’t aware that he was clawing his skin open; in comparison to everything else, that pain was negligible. As bad as it had been before, this assrape was even more violent; Carlos had stopped with the long, drawn-up thrusts. The powerful alpha, his muscled flanks and thighs slick with mansex sweat, was using the belt as a handle to hold the fuckmeat down while his strong hips pumped with the rapid speed and inexorable force of a jackhammer. Over and above the horrible pain of strangulation, the unlucky twink had the sensation of a steam piston being driven into his rectum, churning and tearing at his tender guts as he died.

And his killers made sure he knew what was happening.

“Fuckin-A, Carlos, waste that fuckin’ faggot,” Nick said gleefully as he knelt on the bed to let the camera get a better view of Luke’s suffering. “Make it hurt, man, make sure the worthless sack of shit knows he’s dyin’!”

By now the belt was sunk so far below the surface of Luke’s neck that he could no longer grasp at it; instead, the dying youth began to flail at his assailants. As his slim, smooth legs kicked vainly at Carlos, his hands went towards Nick. The camera caught a quick view of the pleading, imploring look on the blond’s once-handsome face before his thrashing arms forced Nick back.

“Goddam, you stupid motherfucker, ya just ruined a great shot!” Nick barked in anger. Speaking to Carlos—but still looking directly into Luke’s congested face—he said, “Think the fag needs another beatdown, yeah? Needs to be tenderized some more; it’s still too stupid to take what’s comin’ to it.”

Carlos chuckled. “Here, man,” he replied, “Grab the end of the belt—here, the one in my right hand.” Nick did so, not allowing any slack in the thick, choking strap that he and Carlos were now both pulling taut around Luke’s throat. With his right arm now free, Carlos began punching Luke in the face, driving blow after roundhouse blow into the shuddering twink’s face. As his fist crushed the boy’s nose and knocked out another tooth (Nick’s boot had taken care of a couple already), the tempo of his pumping pelvis never slowed; while Luke was getting his face beaten in, his ass was subjected to vicious repeated penetration.

And he was still conscious enough to feel it. All of it.

He couldn’t see very well; his eyesight was dim and occluded, but he could still make out Carlos’s looking shape. The light glinting off the thick links of his gold chain helped define his form for the fading young lawyer; some part of him knew that Nick was off to the side with the camera, but he was visible only as an ominous dark shape.

With his windpipe slowly being crushed, Luke wasn’t able to smell the acrid scent of mansex flooding the room, a musky, heady scent of sweat and pheromones, adrenaline and testosterone. He could hear, though. He could hear his torturers’ taunts clearly, he could hear their deep breathing, ragged with rage and sexual excitement—and he could hear something else, too. It was a wet, meaty, smacking sound that seemed to be coming from two separate sources.

His brain was too traumatized to realize that the sound of a hard, driving buttfuck sounded almost identical to that of a hard, driving, fag-bashing. He was hearing every thrust of Carlos’s cock up his ass and every blow of Carlos’s fist in his face.

But there was a limit. Luke was young, healthy, and despite his slim build, very strong. That had worked against him tonight; it had lengthened the time of his suffering. Eventually, though, he reached a point where his conscious mind could take no more; the battered, abused punk actively craved death as the most immediate way out of his torment.

Some part of his fading awareness was still trying to process what had happened; just a little while ago—not even an hour and a half ago—he’d been a successful young lawyer in Vegas for a convention, having dinner with a partner of the firm, networking with coworkers over drinks…

And now he was being raped, beaten, and strangled…all he’d wanted was a good time, a little hot mansex—what the fuck had happened?

It was the despairing bleat of a mind dying alone in fear and pain, far from any form of hope or comfort.

The camera caught it all. Nick crept closer, his muscled body glistening in the reflected neon as a trickle of sweat ran down between his hubcap pecs into his dark, curly chest fur.

“Here, man, lemme get that back,” Carlos said as he finally stopped pummeling Luke’s now-unrecognizable face. Taking the end of the belt from Nick, he continued, “Yer gonna need both hands to get this part recorded right—and anyway, I wanna off this scumshit faggot myself.”

As Nick relinquished the killing strap back to Carlos, he reoriented himself on the bed for the best view. At the same time, the hulking ex-con spit into Luke’s swollen black face. “Ya hear that, ya homo cumdump?” he snarled at Luke. “Time to die, fuckpig. Time to fill ya fulla cum an’ toss ya out to rot like the garbage ya are. I’m doin’ ya an honor, you disgusting fairy; no way a queer-ass pansy like you deserves to hold my manload, but I guess it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ day, huh? Yeah? So die, motherfuckin’ faggot, die on my cock!”

He jerked the belt with all the force that his massive, bulging biceps could apply—and that was a lot. As the thick black leather strap sank deeper and deeper into the blond cunt’s throat, it was accompanied by a series of cracking, crunching sounds.

As the sounds grew louder, Luke’s face grew darker. He arched his back up instinctively as his throat was crushed; his smooth body, lubed by the film of deathsweat that was literally being squeezed out of him, pressed up against the steel-hard, unyielding firmness of Carlos’s torso, bearing down on him.

The young attorney would no longer have been recognized in his office; his youthful face a ruined mass of flesh. The lower half, smeared with blood and drool, was disfigured by the thick purple tongue protruding from his split, swollen lips. More drool bubbled out around it, creating white, foamy strands that oozed down Luke’s face. Above, the boy’s eyes bulged grotesquely, rolled back so that only blood-streaked whites were visible.

His panicked flailing and thrashing had slowed as brain death began to set in; from violent random clawing, his struggles had diminished to the point that his hands seemed to be bestowing gentle caresses on his killers—one hand was stroking Carlos’s firm, strong arm while the other was rubbing the soft smooth denim on the thigh of the jeans Nick was still wearing.

But as his voluntary nervous system started to die off, the involuntary system kicked in. Luke still had some vague, dim awareness left in him as his body began to tremble and shudder, signaling the onset of violent, uncontrollable convulsions.

Luke didn’t know this, of course, but from experience, both Nick and Carlos did. “Oh hell yeah, this cunt’s about to blow!” Nick chortled evilly as he crouched over the two sweaty men, locked together in a primal brutal embrace of sex and death, his own erect, throbbing shaft dangling over Luke’s head and dripping precum onto the bitch’s mangled black face.

Luke wasn’t the only one about to blow; Carlos could feel the sperm near the boiling point in his huge, puckered scrote. “Fuck!” he grunted, “Fuckin’ faggot whore!” As his face pulled back into a rictus of rage, Nick realized the “straight” ex-con was on the verge of cumming; he adjusted the camera angle to get the best view.

The buff, inked sadist wrapped the belt around his own hands for a firmer grasp. As he felt the explosion of spunk building at the root of his cock, he jerked back on the thick black strap was hard as he could. And then Carlos shot his wad.

It was incredibly brutal. The crunching sounds that had come from Luke’s neck before were nothing compared to the intense cracking noise as the kid’s larynx was crushed into splinters of cartilage. There was still enough of a spark of life in the used-up faggot to respond, both to the pain of a mangled esophagus and to the sensation of boiling hot seed pumped into his guts.

Luke began to cum. His thin but long dick had remained erect the entire time—by now, both Nick and Carlos were so used to this phenomenon that they didn’t pay attention to it. After all, every one of these cumlicking deathpigs had gotten hard and shot a load as they died; why would this one be any different?

What was left of a (possibly) once-brilliant legal mind was dissolving into a sputtering electrochemical stew. Nothing was left of Luke, the Texas lawyer; all that remained was an ass and a cock—an opening for seed to be pumped in and an opening for seed to be pumped out.

And pump out he did. As Carlos leaned back, Nick’s camera centered on Luke’s dark, swollen shaft. It began to pulse visibly, swiftly accelerating until the long tube of manmeat seemed to be convulsing on its own. Suddenly, a spasm of incredible violence rocked Luke’s long, lean, helpless body. The mangled sphincter clenched around the base of Carlos’s rod like a cockring, triggering and explosive orgasm that was matched—if not exceeded—by the fuckmeat’s own cumshots.

The very first load shot straight up out of the shaft, falling back to splatter over all three men on the bed; the second went to the side, spewing Nick’s chest hair with pearly sperm that also managed to smear the far right side of the camera lens—it created a blurring effect that didn’t impact the focus.

Carlos, grunting violently as he continued to unload his aching balls into the almost-dead meat, leaned forward to brace himself. As he bent over his victim, another powerful jet of semen erupted from Luke’s uncontrolled shaft. Searingly hot spunk was splattered up Carlos’s hard torso, from his ripped abs, up through his sweat-matted chest hair, all the way up to the underside of his chin, some of the pearly DNA caught in the links of his chain.

The fading spark of physical awareness trapped within Luke’s cold, dying brain was able to feel a new warm wetness; hot thick fluid was spurting into his face with intense pressure. The spasming homo was too far gone to realize that Nick was shooting huge wads of cum in his black, twisted face; he could only process the physical sensation.

And the last sensation the slim blond twink faggot was able process was an abundance of spunk. If he’d been able to think anymore, he might have appreciated his death, submerged in a sea of jizz. Instead, he got one final violent convulsion that wracked his body in unimaginable agony, wringing a solid stream of boyspunk out of his shaft. Luke, unlucky to the last, didn’t get to enjoy his complete death load; he died mid-spurt, his muscles continuing to empty his balls in mindless spasms.

Carlos continued to pump his shaft into the corpse for another minute or so as his huge hot load drained into the dead homo’s ass. With a deep grunt, he pulled out and stood up. At the same time, Nick got off the bed, too, and centered the frame on Carlos. Taking the message, the tattooed stud posed, arms up, proudly showing his massive flexed biceps. Grinning at the lens, he swayed his hips. His still-hard dick swayed, the head—still oozing large pearls of jizz—dripping fluid across the floor.

Panning to the side, the frame focused on Luke’s corpse, used up and splayed across the bed. The meat’s smooth, firm chest and flat belly were smeared with sweat and spunk. His face was also a blank, congealing pool of sperm, but his swollen, livid tongue was gruesomely obvious. His spread legs kicked randomly and his semi-hard dick throbbed feebly, but his hands were frozen, clenched in agony.

Nick got some great footage of Carlos manhandling Luke’s limp corpse. The belt was so deeply embedded into the meat’s neck that Carlos had to hold the head down. Suddenly, a mischievous grin crossed his face. He was still nude, his amazingly developed body completely bare; instead of using a hand, he braced the dead faggot’s head with his foot, smashing his sole into the meat’s face and freeing up both hands to pry his belt free.

After, Nick shut off the camera and set it back on the dresser as Carlos went into the bathroom to clean up. Once he came out, Nick went in, telling Carlos to get dressed—they needed to figure out what to do with the body.

It didn’t take Carlos any longer to slip on his jeans and engineer boots than it too Nick to wash off his cock. And when Nick came out, Carlos had a proposition.

Somewhere near half-past two in the morning, two pairs of headlights snaked north out of Vegas, heading up I-15 towards the Valley of Fire. Just south of the Moapa reservation, they exited, crossing over to the Great Basin highway and taking a more directly northern route into the vast desert wasteland.

They traveled for some time, until they pulled off the road to the east, well north of Coyote Springs, at which point it became obvious that one of the vehicles was at a distinct disadvantage going cross-country. The vehicle in question was a convertible Mustang, top down, with Carlos at the wheel.

They’d secured the coordinates via GPS, which he was following as best he could. Behind him, Nick’s heavy-duty Ford F250 had four-wheel drive and fared better. But, of course, the ‘Stang wasn’t coming back from this trip.

It had been Carlos’s idea. Luke’s nude body was on the floor of the back seat, his clothes in a wad next to him. In the trunk were five five-gallon plastic containers full of gas. After all, he had a car he needed to get rid of and they both had a corpse to dispose of…

They turned left into a dry gully, the ground on each side rising sharply as the Mustang bucketed over the narrow wash, littered with rocks as small as softballs and as large as—well, bigger than the Mustang, at any rate. About a mile up the gully, a half-submerged boulder took out the oil pan and Carlos brought the shuddering wreck to halt.

Getting out, he waited till Nick, moving carefully a half-mile behind, caught up. He’d had the hard job; his truck needed to get back out. They’d both known the Mustang wasn’t coming back, any more than Luke was.

One Nick arrived, he shut off the pickup but left the headlights on, starkly illuminating the rear of the red convertible. “This is perfect,” he said as he got out. “So far out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere ain’t no one gonna see the flames. G’wan and pop the trunk; let’s get this bonfire on!”

The two men stood together in the warm desert air, each dressed in nothing more than jeans and big black boots, they poured twenty-four gallons of gasoline over Luke’s slim, lithe body, now battered beyond recognition and stiffening into rigor mortis while curled in a fetal positon on the rear floorboards of the ruined car. The last gallon was used to leave a flammable trail back to a safe distance; once they’d done so, Carlos produced a lighter—he’d cut back on cigarettes, but he hadn’t quit—and applied it the gasoline-soaked dirt.

The flame, low and blue, streaked towards the Mustang. There was a drawn-out, pregnant pause—and then a roar. Not an explosion, not a big Hollywood bang to illuminate the night sky, but the deep, guttural roar of fire taking hold after finding plenty of fuel. Luke’s funeral pyre wasn’t showy, but it burned fiercely.

As Nick carefully navigated his truck back to the paved road, something occurred to Carlos. “Hey, man, you seemed to be kinda into it tonight—you sure you got enough good stuff recorded? No offense, dude, but I got a financial stake in it too, now.”

Nick chuckled deeply as he hit pavement and headed back to town. “Don’t worry, Carlos. I got plenty of good footage; our viewers will be happy. Trust me.”

And he did have the footage. Carlos was utterly unaware of the hidden cameras Nick had planted throughout the condo, and Nick planned to keep it that way. He’d have shots of tonight’s snuff from multiple angles; more than enough to make an underground online hit.

Later on, they were proved right about the location of the body dump. By the time a state employee found the vehicle, what was left of Luke was a rotting chunk of carbonized meat fused to the car chassis; he was finally ID’d by his dental records some three weeks after he was reported missing. The autopsy noted the missing teeth and broken bones of the face and concluded he’d died from extreme homicidal force, but could determine little else.

The VIN on the vehicle was traced to male whore who’d been raped and murdered on the east coast a couple of months earlier. Local cops wondered about a serial killer but could make no connection between a dead rentboy on one side of the continent and a dead upstanding lawyer on the other side.

It began idly enough; Joe was randomly trolling through an online hookup app. Specifically, he was poking around on the same app Andy had had—the Asian punk he’d offed earlier.

Naturally enough, it was dangerous to carry the phone too long; it would be tracked. So before he disposed of it, he hijacked the dead fag’s account, changing the profile and the password. But he still wasn’t gonna access it on his own phone; that’d be stupid. He hadn’t taken anything off the last meat he’d offed—the one in the public bathroom—so he’d gone and gotten a burner phone.

He really wasn’t even looking, just curious what was around, when the ping came, and it was close. Joe glanced around, but there was no one else in the parking lot. It must have come from inside the building.

One of the reasons Joe wasn’t actively hunting at the moment was his proximity to the scene of his last kill. He was at the rec center at the north end of the park where the restroom had been located. He was there for the swimming pool.

The heat had gotten intense lately; so intense, in fact, that Joe had given up on running until cooler weather set in. He’d returned to his gym for the duration of the summer, and while he utilized most of the available equipment, he preferred the pool for a solid full-body workout. Problem was, the pool at his gym had been closed down for long-term remodeling the week before.

His membership allowed him access to the pool at another gym across town, but on weekdays there were all kinda of classes and lessons—things like water aerobics, even swimming lessons. He would be lucky to find an open lane.

On the other hand, the free pool at the rec center was almost always deserted. It really made no sense; it was larger—the only Olympic-sized pool in town, in fact—and very well maintained. Even the locker and shower rooms were kept spotless (the male one, at least; Joe couldn’t vouch for the female side).

He had just pulled into the lot and was sitting in his car, just checking the scene when he got hit on. The altered account now showed Joe’s buff, hairy, toned torso as a profile pic and usually generated some lust among the homos on whom Joe was preying. In this case, the message came almost immediately after the ping.

“Hey, stud,” it read, “Love the muscles. Work out a lot?”

The profile didn’t have a face pic; the avatar was some kind of zodiac thing. All it contained was a name—Cory—and an age—twenty-two.

“Yeah,” Joe replied. He was interested, but only very slightly; he didn’t have enough to go on. The communication proceeded quickly and tersely.

—“U looking now?” from “Cory”.

—“Yeah”

—“Where r u”

—“Rec center on Kanen rd still in parking lot U?”

—“here too in locker room” This one was accompanied by photos.

Cory turned out to be relatively well-built. Short and slightly smaller than Joe, he was young with straw-blond hair, styled carefully to look like scruffy negligence. He had wide-set green eyes ringed by long lashes, a pug nose, broad smooth cheeks and the blinding, suspiciously easy grin of a natural con man.

The pics weren’t limited to his face, though. One displayed his smooth, toned torso to perfection; another showed half a foot of manmeat jutting proudly from a golden nest of pubic hair.

Joe hadn’t been looking, but he’d found something. “OMW,” he messaged back as he snatched up his gym bag—Speedos, a towel and some grooming items—and got out of the car. Once inside the building, he glanced around the lobby, again noticing how empty the place was. Even for the middle of a weekday, it was deserted.

The pool was down a hall to the left. A set of double doors on the right side opened into the pool area, cavernous and alive with faint obscure echoes. Skittering glimmers of light, reflected from the surface of the water, seemed to make the background shadows dart and scurry furtively. The entire room was empty, but it still seemed occupied.

On the far side of the pool, bracketed by huge signs declaring no lifeguard on duty, were the doors to the locker rooms; the men’s was the closer door. Joe was already familiar with the layout and headed in that direction.

His feet, firmly laced into a pair of black size-11 Puma Tazon kicks with white ped socks just barely visible, padded quietly across the concrete decking. Above, he wore nothing but a pair of low-waist shorts, black with red trim. The shorts were so form-fitting that Joe’s massive cock was outlined like a long black ridge running down his thigh, the head almost peeping out under the hem. There was nothing covering the broad expanse of wiry fur on his rock-hard, sculpted chest

Pushing open the door, Joe strode into the dank locker room. The far back wall of the room was covered with a double row of lockers, an upper and a lower. Set out perpendicularly from the wall were more lockers, forming small “bays”, with wooden benches between them. On the right side of the room was a row of sinks with mirrors above; on the right side were the showers.

And in the locker bay on the far left, beyond the sinks, a boy was sitting on the slatted wood bench.

It was the same grinning blond kid from the app. He was leaning back on the bench, propped up on one arm, his smooth, taut body almost glowing under the fluorescent lights. His other hand was tucked down inside the tiny bathing suit he wore, stroking his hard dick.

The shorts were electric blue with a black band at the waist. Inside the band was a drawstring, also black, tied in a large but basic bow. The suit was so short that if the bottom edges had been slanted up instead of running horizontally across the thigh, he’d have been wearing briefs.

The only other thing he was wearing was a pair of Nike Free RN sneakers, white with the trademark in black; his well-developed upper body was bare.

“Hey, dude,” he murmured up at Joe with a leer when the latter got close, “Ya lookin’ to play?”

“I might be,” Joe replied, his lips twisted with faint, cold smile. “So how do you play? What do you want?”

The kid stood up. “Dick, man. I want your dick.”

Joe’s smile became deeper, more contemptuous. “Good answer,” he replied, reaching his hand down and pulling his enormous hog up out of his shorts. “So get over here and work it, boy.”

“Cory, man, my name is Cory.”

Joe grinned maliciously. “Your name is cocksucker, you little homo. Now get over here and swallow my shaft!” The strong youth stiffened as if he’d been slapped—but his cock stiffened too; his skin-tight shorts made the fact too obvious to hide. The boy knelt down on the hard cold tiles in front of the larger, more powerful alpha and wrapped his lips around the thick, throbbing head, already oozing precum.

As Cory accepted the huge throbbing rod into his mouth, he felt the top’s hands pressing against his head—and then, in the blink of an eye, he was forced down on the shaft with sudden, irresistible force. Cory hadn’t even had time to inhale before he found himself involuntarily deepthroating the dude.

Joe gripped the punk’s head tightly in his hands, brutally facefucking him as he felt the styling gel the little shit used crunch in his hands. Choking, Cory beat his hands against Joe’s powerful thighs; it was as ineffectual as beating on a tree trunk. Joe grunted with pleasure as he felt the blond boy gagging, the kid’s tongue writhing and scraping against the sensitive rosebud just under the pulsating head…

Finally, with a curse, he abruptly shoved the slut’s head away. Cory fell back, coughing up a huge streamer of drool as he tried to catch his breath. “D-damn,” he gasped, then gagged again. Eventually, he regained control. “Fuck man, that’s a monster cock you got. And yer so fuckin’ strong, dude—ya work out a lot? I mean, I know it’s a lot, but, well, a lot a lot?”

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “Some. Why?”

“Ever get sore, man? Here, hang on…” Cory scrambled to his feet and dived at one of the lockers—an upper one, on the side wall. Swiftly twirling the dial, he opened the heavy steel combination lock and tossed it onto the bench. He opened the locker and partially withdrew a pair of jeans, digging into the back pocket to extract his wallet. As he did so, a balled up pair of socks fell out of the locker. Inside, Joe could also make out some indistinct shapes that seemed to be more clothing, and a pair of loafers—the kid’s post-workout clothing.

The boy turned back, proffering something in his hand that turned out to be a business card. Joe read it with sneering amusement: “Cory Carlisle, licensed massage therapist”—it even had the official license number issued by the state.

The hard-bodied alpha chuckled aloud. “You any good?” he smirked.

“I can show ya—here, lay down on this bench. On yer back, man. I’ll give you and your cock the best massage you’ve ever had.”

“This better be good, boy,” Joe drawled, “I got high standards and I don’t like bein’ lied to by worthless pansies who ain’t got the skill to satisfy me. Ya feelin’ me, boy? You think you got what it takes, you better be prepared to prove it.”

Joe went to the bench and swept the lock off; it landed on the tile floor and clattered to a stop near the socks. He slipped out of his shorts, standing completely nude except for his black Puma kicks, then lay back on the bench. His erect tool rose above him like a thick, trickling flagpole.

For his part, Cory’s electric blue swimsuit had a large moist circle that darkened to navy blue as it expanded outward from his leaking crotch. “Hang-hang on, m-man,” he stuttered in erotic excitement as he plucked frantically at the knot in the suit’s drawstring. Snatching one loose end, he gave a quick, nervous jerk that not only undid the knot, it also pulled the thick nylon cord halfway out of the shorts altogether. “Damn,” Cory muttered as the shorts slid to the floor. Just like Joe, he was now wearing nothing more than his kicks—the white Nikes—and a swollen, dripping erection.

Joe spread his legs as Cory drew near, exposing a small area of the bench between them. Cory knelt there and then slowly crawled upwards, his silky-smooth skin scraping against Joe’s fur as he slid upwards until he way lying directly on top of Joe and looking down into his face, their throbbing dicks nudging and twitching against each other.

Reaching up, Cory placed his hands on Joe’s broad, bulging pectorals and began rubbing them. The boy pressed down firm on the older man’s muscles, curling his fingers into Joe’s dark, wiry chest hair. Joe himself could feel no benefit from the supposed “massage”, but it was evident Cory did. He slowly moved down Joe’s torso, his hands grasping and exploring the body of the anonymous stud. Joe’s hijacked profile showed no name—and Cory had never asked.

It clearly didn’t matter to the fit, well-built faggot. All he was interested in was dick. Well, he was gonna get plenty.

That wasn’t quite accurate, though—he was also interested in Joe’s rock-hard body. He continued to worship it. He worshiped it with his hands, dragging them through dominant top’s body fur as he felt the iron-hard immobility of the alpha’s ripped abs. He also worshiped it with his tongue—he’d started at the nipples, slurping assiduously, before lowering his head towards Joe’s groin. His tongue was now exploring the musky depths of the stranger’s navel.

Joe could feel the slut working his way down his body; he was waiting for the little homo to get back on his dick. He was considering his options.

Should he let this one go? He wanted to waste the cumsucker; he wanted to hurt the little piece of shit so bad—but it wasn’t wise. Even just having sex here was a bad idea; if they were caught, he’d be an immediate suspect in the other murder in the park. And besides, this didn’t feel bad…

Joe made his mind up. He’d give Cory a fair deal. If the boy could get him off—and he had to admit, the queerboy sure knew how to suck a dick; maybe he’d be good enough—he’d leave it at that.

Cory would walk out alive.

When the slut got to Joe’s groin, he braced himself by placing his palms flat on the alpha’s rock-hard thighs. Kneeling on the end of the bench, Joe’s swollen purple dick towered in front of him. As Cory watched, entranced, the thick shaft pulsed visibly; a glittering bead of translucent fluid oozed from the top and slowly trickled down the side.

The punk’s own tool was already hard; this sight merely stiffened it to nearly the point of pain. Knowing that this anonymous stud liked him gagging, Cory took a deep breath before lowering his head onto the throbbing rod. As he went down, he took time to wrap his tongue around the stranger’s cock, savoring the vein-wreathed length as it filled his throat.

Joe’s arms were raised and bent back, his hands behind his head, holding it up so he could watch the blond pansy suck his dick. “That’s it, cunt,” he sneered, “Lick my dick like a good cocksucker.” He shifted his legs, sliding his black Pumas up so he could leverage his hips and pump his stiff pole into the boy’s greedy mouth.

Even though he’d known it was coming, Cory hadn’t known when; Joe’s sudden thrust completely plugged his airway. At the same time, the muscular, aggressive top clenched his fists in the fag’s hair, the golden, stylized spikes somehow still crunchy with gel. Cory found himself as trapped and immobile as if he’d been strapped into an iron cage.

Again, he found himself subjected to a violent skullfuck. Despite his deep breath, his lungs were already beginning to ache; he dug his fingertips into the firm flesh of Joe’s inner thighs with as little impact as if they had been steel. Joe noticed and chuckled maliciously. “Havin’ trouble breathin’, ya cumsuckin’ faggot?” he gloated. “Ok, then—but ya gotta be quick, boy, I expect a lot outta my bitches.”

For a brief moment—Joe actually counted out five seconds—he eased his vise-like grip and let Cory pull his head back. Barely; in fact, he could only pull it back an inch and a half. It was enough to allow him to breathe, but it was messy relief. Still choking and gagging, Cory was coughing up white ropy strands of drool, the thick strings of saliva flowing around Joe’s tool—still stuck deep down the cunt’s throat—and down the boy’s chin to stream to the floor.

“Gag on it, you homo cunt,” Joe sneered. “C’mon, boy, get back on my cock!” Cory had just enough time to get another deep lungful of air before his esophagus was rammed full of pulsating manmeat.

The young blond found his face mashed into the alpha’s groin, the tough, wiry pubic hair scraping his cheeks and forehead. A pair of huge, wrinkled balls slapped jarringly at his chin as the domineering alpha reamed the throat of the well-built youth.

This session lasted longer. Cory’s sinuses were clogged and his frantic five seconds of gasping hadn’t allowed much air past the meat tube wedged in his windpipe; he was running out of oxygen faster than he had earlier. And as a result, panic set in sooner.

The cum-hungry boyslut found himself desperately trying to get the alpha’s dick out of his mouth. It was too much; this dude was both too big and too rough. Cory realized he needed to put the brakes on this one or he could get hurt—but would he get the chance to?

He wasn’t sure he could get free. For the first time, a cold shaft of fear penetrated his warm erotic lust. As hard as his own dick was, as hot as the facefuck action was, the crushing pain in his chest was starting to become the focus of his attention. Cory frantically beat his hands on Joe’s legs before planting them firmly and straining to pull himself up so strongly that his biceps bulged almost to the size of Joe’s.

“Whassa matter, boy?” Joe sneered. He could feel the sperm starting to boil in his testicles; he was getting close. “My dick too much for ya? Tough shit, homo—suck it!”

Cory wasn’t having it. Jerking forcefully, he bucked like a bronco, yanking his head back until Joe released him with an angry grunt. Cory instantly went upright on his knees, gasping for air. He bent forward, instinctively placing one hand on Joe’s broad chest to steady himself as he crawled back to full consciousness.

“F-fuck du-dude,” the kid choked out, “T-too much, man, too much. I charge extra for a happy ending…” He trailed off in an extended coughing fit.

Joe went rigid, staring coldly at the slowly-recovering punk. “You want me to pay to cum?” he said slowly and coldly. Cory, clearly not recognizing the suppressed rage in that flat, icy tone, replied with an obnoxious, whining tone, “Fuck yeah, asshole, ya think I give a massage for free? Ya gotta pay to get off.”

“You fucking sack of shit whore,” Joe responded evenly just before he lunged upwards. Jamming his left hand into Cory’s armpit, he shoved the boy up and to the right, into the open locker. At the same time, he brought his right arm up and slammed his forearm flat into the locker door, driving it closed and smashing Cory’s head.

With a loud squawk, Cory fell to the floor, bleeding from both sides of his head where the sharp metal edges of the locker door on one side and the frame on the other had cut into his skin. Sobbing and crying, the boy began to crawl away from his assailant across the cold tile floor.

Sitting up on the bench, Joe looked down at the stupid little fairy squealing and writhing on the floor like a pig and felt his body flood with rage. The whore had actually expected him to pay to cum. He needed to learn what a terrible mistake he’d made—and then Joe saw how to teach him.

Bending down, he scooped up both the balled-up socks and the padlock. It took no more than ten seconds to free a single sock and stick the padlock inside. Once he had, Joe stood up and walked over to Cory.

The young blond homo had actually managed to crawl some distance in the brief time that had passed. Still sobbing and in severe pain, he could hear the footsteps of Joe’s black kicks relentlessly coming for him. “Don’t you fuckin’ touch me, you psycho!” he screeched. “I’m gonna call the fuckin’ cops, you asshole!”

Standing over him, Joe swung the weighted sock like a blackjack. On the floor, Cory peered up at him with horror. He could see nothing but implacable anger in Joe’s face. “P-please, man,” he whispered hoarsely, realizing with cold terror that he was looking death straight in the face, “I-I didn’t mean it—don’t, dude, please god no, don’t fuckin’ do this; I’ll do whatever ya want, just lemme live, man, oh fuck oh please—“

Curling his scruffy, handsome face into a contemptuous leer, Joe swung his arm and delivered a vicious blow to Cory’s back. The heavy metal lock smashed directly into a rib, shattering it. The boywhore screamed and writhed like a worm on hot pavement as splinters of bone tore through his innards. “Fuck!” he screeched, scrambling over the tile, “Please god, stop!”

Towering over the crawling faggot, Joe stomped his foot in the middle of Cory’s back, driving the wind out of the unfortunate youth and leaving the tread of his sneaker embedded in the cunt’s smooth flesh as a bruise. Swinging the sock around in his hand like a sling, Joe increased the momentum of the heavy metal lock, then abruptly bent down, his powerful arm circling high above his head as he slammed the improvised weapon down.

Cory knew it was coming and tried to move but Joe’s foot was pinning him to the floor; the best he could do was twist to his right. It turned out to be a serious mistake. The homemade blackjack, instead of hitting center body mass, made contact with Cory’s left arm, halfway between the shoulder and the elbow. The chunk of metal, moving with irresistible force, snapped the humerus like a chicken wing.

Cory shrieked in agony and flailed, his broken arm jerking limply and grotesquely but was unable to get out from under the sadistic alpha. Even in the depths of his fear and pain, the handsome young slut was still aware of his assailant’s erection—he couldn’t have forgotten it even if he’d wanted; Joe’s precum was dripping on his back in burning drops like melted wax.

Oh shit, this dude wasn’t just bashing the fuck outta him, he was gettin’ off on doing it—

Cory’s futile thrashing on the cold tiles became even more intense as his panicked squeals rose in pitch. “Goddam, yer a mouthy little fairy whore, aintcha?” Joe snarled in anger, taking his foot off the kid’s back. Cory’s faint relief at his release was short-lived, though; Joe had merely freed his foot to deliver a vicious kick to the boy’s waist—one strong enough to flip Cory onto his back.

The whore could look directly up into the hard face of his torturer; the rage that he saw there so overwhelmed him with terror that his bleatings and mewlings tapered off into a subdued sobbing. The depths of his abuse and humiliation were obvious—as was his lust.

The little fucker was hard as a rock. As he was getting the living fuck beaten out of him, Cory had remained erect, and the glaze of slime smeared on the head of his dick showed that he’d even dripped out some precum of his own.

“Yeah, ya worthless sack of shit, that’s what I thought,” the muscled alpha panted, his broad furry chest heaving with exertion. “Goddam fag already knows it’s such a useless piece a’ garbage it gets off on bein’ treated like one.”

He knelt down leaning directly over Cory’s face. “Guess what, cunt? If ya liked that, it’s yer lucky day. I’m gonna take you out like the trash you are, bitch—and it’s gonna hurt.” As he bent further down, the prostrate youth, frozen in horror, could smell the mansweat on his killer’s body, laden with adrenaline and testosterone; even in an extremity of terror, his cock responded by swelling and darkening. Joe spit contemptuously in the boy’s face before he stood back up; Cory’s only reaction came from his oozing dick.

“C’mon, ya homo punk, time for shit to get real,” Joe drawled as he rose again, his large shadow stretching ominously across the battered youth cowering at his feet. The words pierced Cory’s mind with a cold shaft of fear. From deep within his soul, the crumbled remains of his arrogance found one last sliver of spirit—just enough to make him protest.

“N-no…” the blond boy whispered. “D-don’t. No. Please…”

Then, seeing the rage darkening the cruel alpha’s face, he realized he’d made another mistake. He’d set the psycho off again; he could see the murderous light of wrath building in the towering stud’s eyes and his resistance collapsed immediately. He started weeping uncontrollably, in fear of the inevitable blow—he could already see Joe’s arm moving back for another swing of the blackjack. And so Cory made yet another error in judgment—he seemed to be involuntarily digging his own grave—by raising his right arm to ward off the blow, holding his hand up, palm side out.

This time, Joe crushed the kid’s hand, snapping three of his fingers like twigs.

Cory’s shrill shriek should have echoed off the tile walls of the locker room, but his throat was so hoarse and ragged with screaming that all he was able to emit was a loud, cracking wheeze of agony. The whoreboy lay flat on his back, kicking and trembling in agony as tears streamed down his pain-wracked face. In a reflexive attempt at escape, he flexed his legs, trying to get some traction with the heels of his white Nikes. His arms, of course, were useless now; the punk had been brutally immobilized.

But he still hadn’t lost his hard-on.

Joe noticed and grinned evilly. “Goddam, you queer-ass cunt, you sure fuckin’ loved bein’ treated like the sack of shit you are. Almost as much as I love treatin’ ya that way. Lessee if we can amp that shit up, huh?” And with that, he wheeled and walked back towards Cory’s open locker.

The writhing lump of bruised and beaten flesh that had been a handsome young massage therapist twenty minutes ago still lay gasping and sobbing on the floor. During the brutal assault, he’d managed to crawl along the floor for a good distance; as a result, when Joe strode away, he passed beyond Cory’s line of sight. The suffering punk, shuddering and moaning on the cold floor tiles, had an idea that the buff sadist had bent down to retrieve something. He heard Joe give a very faint grunt of exertion, followed by the sound of fabric ripping.

He had no idea what was happening, though, till Joe returned. In the killer’s big, strong hands dangled a length of cord. It took Cory’s traumatized mind a while to realize he was looking at the draw cord that had been torn out of his own swimsuit.

Some part of him expected his legs to be bound for further torture; he felt a dull sense of surprise when the cord was looped around his neck instead. The cord tightened and Cory, moaning and crying, expected to be strangled instantly.

Instead, he found himself being dragged roughly across the floor by the cord around his throat. His legs kicked and flailed in protest, but his arms were no help. The shattered left arm trailed limply at his side; he could still move his right arm, but the crushed hand, looking like a pale, mangled starfish, was utterly useless. His own inert body weight had caused the cord to squeeze his throat to the point that he was unable to speak, but with extreme effort, he was still able to breathe.

Since he was being dragged by his head, more or less, Cory was unable to see where he was being taken; he could only feel the tiles on his bare skin. Within seconds, though, the dragging had stopped, and was replaced by something worse. He was lifted up off the ground by the noose around his neck briefly before a flat bar dug into his shoulders and started scraping its way down his smooth back. Hearing Joe strain as he jerked on the cord, Cory understood—vaguely, his air was now completely cut off—that the hulking sadistic killer was dragging him backwards up onto the wooden bench.

And then it was done. The constriction around his neck relaxed. His aching, beaten body was lying limply on the bench, his legs spread. His right arm was curled on his smooth, broad chest while his left hung at an unnatural angle over the edge. The pain-twisted, suffering youth coughed up a thick wad of phlegm as he gasped desperately and rapidly.

Cory was too stunned, too beaten down by this point to wonder what was coming next; he could only hope it wouldn’t hurt anymore. Even if it meant death, he wanted to the pain to end.

He was sadly disappointed.

For his part, Joe had kept his eye on the pansy’s cock as he’d dragged the pile of shit across the floor. It had continued to darken, becoming so engorged that it looked like an eggplant. As the buff, toned alpha had tightened his biceps and manhandled the cocksucker up onto the bench, he’d momentarily wondered if the little bitch was gonna cum right there. No matter how much pain he inflicted on the cringing queerboy, the fag seemed to love it.

Now it was time for Joe to get what he’d come for.

Cory moaned slightly as Joe parted his legs, his large hands gripping the soft smooth flesh of the boy’s inner thighs. Semi-conscious at best, the punk was aware of the movement, but little else—

—until Joe shoved the entire length of his gigantic, pulsing rod up Cory’s tender fuckhole in a single, unlubed thrust.

The searing, slashing agony in his anus shifted the homo slut from semi-consciousness to full consciousness in the blink of an eye. His emerald-green eyes widened, huge and round like platters, deeply ringed with shock and physical trauma. He screeched, a high, unpleasant squeaking sound, as his body shuddered and jerked in protest. Instinctively, Cory began beating at his rapist with his right hand; the action made the jagged ends of his broken fingers grind together, intensifying the pain he was in.

“Quit fightin’ me, ya stupid fuckin’ faggot!” Joe barked in fury. Doubling his fist, he drove it into Cory’s jaw with the all the power of a horse’s kick. The boy’s head rocked back, slamming into the bench as his mouth snapped shut with such sudden violence that he bit through his tongue.

Spitting up blood, Cory coughed and squealed in agony and abject terror as Joe roughly pulled his thick hog back up out of the punk’s colon, keeping in only the massive mushroom tip. Joe repositioned his kicks on the floor for better leverage and immediately plunged his shaft deep into the cunt’s soft, squelching guts. Another agonized screech rose from Cory’s swollen, split lips.

“Goddam it, I’m tired of lissenin’ to ya squealin’ like a pig, you worthless cum-guzzlin’ homo!” Joe snarled, “Guess it’s time to make you shut the fuck up!”

Leaning forward, Joe grabbed at the loose ends of the draw cord still draped around Cory’s throat. With a single violent jerk, he pulled it so taut that it immediately sank into the skin. The hard-bodied killer yanked tightly on the cord as he brutally reamed out the kid’s fuckhole. Luckily, it was thirty inches of black woven nylon, well able to stand up to the strain.

Cory, on the other was less able to cope. His frantic gurgling had been cut short and his mangled hand flapped uselessly at his throat. His bulging eyes glittered with highlights of terror and excruciating pain so intense they bordered on insanity. As his hard, firm young body shuddered under the assault, the punk’s dazed brain tried to understand how an offer of a massage and a quick blowjob had turned into rape, nightmarish torture and murder.

Joe pounded his tool into Cory’s torn, bleeding ass, yelling “Fuck! Yeah! Take it, cunt!” with each thrust, the raging lust in his voice enhanced by the swift slapping sound of flesh on flesh. He was pulling the cord with such force that tendons were starting to stand out, first in his neck, then his forearms. The cord itself was so deep in the kid’s throat that it couldn’t be seen.

What it was doing to Cory could be seen very well. The youth’s face was a deep blue, darkening to purple so quickly that it was impossible to tell if any bruises were present—everything was the color of a bruise. Even his huge, panic-struck eyes were blotched with ruptured blood vessels. The only part of him not turning dark was the thick foamy spittle trickling around the sides of his swollen, protruding tongue.

Cory’s hard, tight body jerking and convulsing under him, Joe shuddered with pleasure as the dying fag’s rectum caressed the sensitive engorged head of his cock. The sadistic alpha chuckled maliciously; the stupid little motherfucker had turned out to be a good massage therapist after all—at least, he was good at massaging Joe’s dick in his death throes.

And as Cory twitched and kicked, his thick cock was still erect; in fact, it seemed to stiffer than ever and twitching rapidly in tempo to Joe’s relentless ass-pounding. With each forceful pump of the murderous top’s hips, the boy’s dick slapped against Joe’s ripped abs and sprayed a fine mist of precum over his chest fur.

Cory himself was past sensation at this point; part of him knew that he was dying full of cock and that was the part keeping his dick hard. The rest of him knew that he was dying full of pain and that part wanted to die. There was no more terror, there was almost no more Cory; all that was left was the pain—and the lust.

And at the extreme end of oxygen starvation, even those two primal drives were losing their grip; massive brain damage was sending Cory’s smooth body, muscled and slick with sweat forced from his pores in metabolic trauma, into violently erratic convulsions. He wasn’t quite as large or strong as Joe, but his lithe body was powerful enough that the hard-bodied sex killer had to clamp down and ride Cory into death like he was taming a horse.

As the dying cunt kicked away his last few seconds on Earth, his internal muscles convulsed as well, creating a rippling effect in his colon that almost seemed to draw suction. It was as if Cory’s mindless, flailing body was trying to suck the cum right out of Joe’s rod.

It was working.

Joe could feel his hot sperm starting to bubble in his puckered sack; the thick tube running along the underside of his shaft seemed to tingle with electrical fire. He was close, he was so fucking close…

It was time. He was gonna blow. He was gonna seed this worthless faggot meat. His black Pumas slipped back as he bent forward, his full body, heavy with the weight of his muscled mass pinning the thrashing boycunt under him, still impaled on his cock. As Cody’s swollen, pulsing dick slid moistly between their flat firm bellies, Joe wrapped both ends of the nylon cord around his right hand and placed his left hand flat on the punk’s shuddering forehead.

Then, straight-arming the kid’s forehead, he gave the cord a single, swift yank so brutal it snapped the woven nylon. It also snapped Cory’s neck.

The popping sounds of shattering bone once again echoed in the locker room. It was accompanied with another round of violent physical convulsions in the entwined male bodies on the bench. Cory bucked and spasmed as an electrochemical surge flashed though his nervous system; his arms and legs contracted involuntarily, causing the corpse to wrap its legs around Joe’s waist, white Nikes helplessly kicking in midair. The meat had even swung the broken arm up and around Joe’s back.

At the same time, the release the dying homo’s dick had been craving was finally granted; Joe felt the hot spurts of semen pumped into the fur that lined his sculpted chest. The little motherfucker must have been full of cum; it kept spewing and spewing. Even after Joe had uttered an inarticulate, strangled cry and flooded the kid’s guts with boiling manspunk, Cory’s still-erect shaft was spitting out ropy strands of jizz across his own motionless chest.

The boy’s body had one last wrenching spasm that pulled the last drop of semen out of Joe’s still-throbbing hog. The alpha thought the kid’s phenomenal death load was over; he raised himself up and felt one last warm splash, this one under his chin, caught in his facial stubble.

The heaving, gasping alpha slowly withdrew his still-dripping cock from the corpse. Standing up, he took a moment to catch his breath and to guiltily scope out the situation. He’d given in to his anger, and that was a bad thing; this snuff was way too close—and too recent—to the other one in the park.

On the other hand, he’d needed a workout, and he’d gotten one. Scooping up his gym bag, he padded off to the showers.

Toweling himself off after he got out of the body, Joe redressed and took a glance around. If he hadn’t known how absolutely deserted the place would be, the snuff would have been the height of insanity. The corpse, sprawled on its back with the legs spread, the soles of the white Nikes facing forward, was at least partially visible from the locker room entrance. It was necessary to take a few more steps into the room to get a clearer look, to see the snapped arm or the congested head, now fading to a dusky blue, hanging at odd, impossible angles.

Still, it had all worked out. For Joe, it was a happy ending.

The pool area was quiet, but not silent. Empty, but not motionless, refracted glints of light danced across the walls and faint slopping sounds coming from the water.

And then it wasn’t empty.

The next day, Joe was dressing for work; he’d gotten a call to come in. He’d flipped on the TV in the background, not paying much attention until a certain story attracted his notice.

It was a mention of a body found at the rec center that caught his ear. “The body was that of a young Caucasian male,” the anchor intoned. “The report came in of an accidental drowning but when paramedics pulled the man from the water, he was completely nude. Police aren’t saying much beyond the fact that there were clear signs of physical violence; however, inside sources have hinted that the victim suffered multiple sexual assaults. In light of the death of Bradford DeLaney III, found raped and strangled in a bathroom in the same park, authorities are now saying—“

Joe shut the TV off, then let the remote fall. For the first time in a long time, something had taken the alpha stud by surprise. He tried to reconcile the scene he’d left and the one the TV had described; it simply didn’t compute.

The wind had died down a little but was still brisk. It had gotten colder and a heavy mist, just short of being rain, was obscuring the quiet streets. The Trucker had left the stripper’s apartment hot and hard, still flush with the excitement of the kill, but the raw chill in the air soon sapped both his physical and his emotional heat. Everything was quiet and dim as he walked back to his rented room.

The haze got appreciably thicker the closer he got to the hotel, which was why the Trucker didn’t notice the boy until he was within five feet of him. The hulking stud had just passed the gay bar (now closed for the night) and rounded the corner, the firm tread of his thick-soled boots muffled in the chill dank mist. Stepping into the glowing orange ball of fog surrounding a streetlight, he noticed a dark shape just beyond.

As he approached it, its features resolved into those of a young man. Despite the thick, distorting atmosphere of the incoming cold front, it was obvious right away that the youth was on the make. No one who wasn’t selling his body would be out at this hour dressed like that—little whore must be freezing, the Trucker mused.

Tempting as it was, he was no longer in the mood. Ignoring the street slut, he plodded on through the murk.

“Hey, dude, wanna play?” It was a hoarse whisper from off to the side. The Trucker paused, then turned and spoke to the kid.

“Whassa matter, man,” the cheap hustler jeered, “that high-priced cocksucker you picked up in the bar take all your money?”

The Trucker froze. “What?” he snapped, glaring at the youth.

“Y’know,” the kid drawled. “Randy. Stripper at the Cowboy Lounge back there. Sure, I know him, I’m from around here—and I know what he charges, fuckin’ whore. Anyways, I seen ya goin’ up to his place.”

As the Trucker processed this information, the boywhore continued to throw shade on his rival. “Dude, I’m better than that fuckin’ cunt ever could be, and I’ll do it for less money. Bet he didn’t even drain all yer load…”

This, the muscular killer realized, was bad. He’d never realized there was a witness—was he slipping? It had been in the backyard of that house, the garage apartment—where had this kid been hiding?

Whatever the case was, the Trucker realized he needed to take care of this motherfucker quickly.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said curtly. “He wasn’t a good fuck. Didn’t get me off. Think you can?”

“Ok, cunt, prove it,” the Trucker said in a level voice. “C’mon, I gotta room a couple blocks over.”

The whore’s slim shape trailed in the mist behind him as the hard-bodied alpha made his way back to the motel. His room was on the ground floor; his key allowed them entry through a side door, bypassing the lobby. It wasn’t until they were in the room, with the door locked behind them, that the Trucker got his first good look at the street hustler.

The boy was just under six feet tall and looked no older than twenty. His hair was long on the top, swept forward, and cut very short on the sides and back. The longer part on top was frosted an almost strident strawberry blond that didn’t match the dark, shaved hair on the lower areas. His green, almond-shaped eyes glittered with the cold greed of the hardcore prostitute. His high cheekbones added a kind of calculating felinity to his expression.

He was wearing what appeared to be a simple unlined denim jacket over a slim-fit t-shirt that emphasized his chest by comparison to his slender waist. His tight jeans were the same pale, faded blue as his jacket, but they were considerably more revealing. Not because they clung like a second skin to his long, firm legs—which they did—but because of the ragged slashes deliberately cut across the thighs.

With every movement, the material parted, giving a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth pale flesh on the hustler’s inner thigh, an alluring inducement to spending money in order to possess his lithe young body for a few minutes—or a few hours. The Trucker wasn’t impressed—he’d seen better.

He’d snuffed better.

The whore stood defiantly, staring at the incredibly well-built stranger he’d accosted. His arms were crossed and his black and white Nike Air Jordan 5s were planted far apart on the thin, threadbare carpet. “So,” he drawled, “what up, dude? You gonna whip yer cock out or what?”

The Trucker grinned easily. This little cunt wasn’t worth his time, but he wasn’t about to take a chance. “Sure,” he said, slipping his leather jacket off, “but I wanna see yours, too. Strip your shirt off, man, and haul your dick out. I like to see what I’m payin’ for.”

The hustler paused, then smiled. “Ok, stud, whatever ya want. I’m Cody, by the way. Gonna put my stuff over here, K?” He turned towards the desk/dresser as he shrugged off the denim jacket. As he laid it across the desk, the Trucker couldn’t help but notice that the rear of the homo slut’s jeans had been cut as well, sliced under the seat and ripped to show the cunt’s bubble butt, his asscheeks slightly shadowed with soft, sandy peachfuzz.

The Trucker grasped his own shirt, pulling the thermal up off his massively-muscled chest. The dogtags he wore were caught in the olive-green fabric; when they finally pulled free, they jingled as they fell back and bounced off the alpha’s broad pecs. The whore didn’t notice; he kept his back to the Trucker as he slipped off the black slim t-shirt. He evidently thought the Trucker was still undressing when he slipped a small glass item out of his pocket and slipped it into the folds of the shirt.

The experienced alpha knew a meth pipe when he saw one. His grin grew broader and more shark-like. No one was gonna come lookin’ for a faggot meth-head whore. He approached the cunt silently.

He could waste the witness and no one would care.

When Cody turned back to face his john, he was stripped to the waist, the dim lighting giving his lean torso a soft and almost sultry focus. His firmly-packed jeans still clung to his legs, his Air Jordans were still tightly laced on his feet with the tongues outside the hem of the jeans. Like a good whore, he’d complied with his trick’s orders and opened his fly. He’d worn no belt, so he’d left the button fastened at the waist, but beneath that his long dark cock jutted from an exuberant tangle of brunette pubes.

He whirled around to gasp involuntarily at the powerfully-built stud looming over him. This close, he could see the hard, chiseled angles of the Trucker’s scruffy face—and the sharp, steely light of a predator shining coldly and cruelly from his ice-blue eyes. Cody wasn’t naïve; as the heady, pungent reek of manscent filed his nostrils, he was alert to all the warning signs.

Still, the blow was so swift, he never saw it coming. There was a concussive blast of pain in his face accompanied by a dull, thudding smack, like a sledgehammer striking a side of beef.

Dazed, Cody blinked and wondered why he was on his knees; he didn’t remember stumbling back and falling under the impact of the sucker-punch. The stunned boywhore reached up and poked gingerly at his bruised, swelling cheek. His green eyes, wide with shock, turned up to the scowling face of his john.

Swiftly, the Trucker bent down and grabbed a fistful of the slut’s hair—the long dyed hair on the top of the boy’s head offering an excellent handhold. “So ya saw me tonight, huh?” he snarled, his face twisted with cold rage. “I’m gonna make damn sure you don’t see anything else, cunt.”

Cody gasped and tried to block the blow. He was too slow—the Trucker popped him hard on the jaw, driving the slim youth back into the desk and knocking over the chair.

The groggy youth struggled back up to his knees. He was breathing deeply, almost sobbing as he tried to understand what was happening. His rattled, drug-fogged brain found nothing in the muscled stud’s words to cling to; they made no sense.

“Wha—“ he started, then stopped cold. Kneeling, his eyes were crotch-level to the Trucker, and for the first time, he noticed the alpha’s thick, swinging dick. Even limp, it was more than seven inches, glistening and wreathed in dark veins. Bursting out of a black bristling mass of pubic hair, the Trucker’s cock recalled every clichéd snake and python metaphor Cody had ever heard.

And just as snakes reputedly hypnotize their prey, the young street whore found himself mesmerized by the massive tube of flesh. It was several seconds before jagged darts of pain began to push their way through Cody’s consciousness, forcing him to tear his tunnel vision away from that frighteningly huge tool and focus on his imminent danger.

“D-dude,” he stammered, “I-I didn’t see nothin’—“

The Trucker lunged. The half-dressed whore squealed in shrill terror and tried to cower under the desk. It was a futile gesture; the older, stronger alpha had no difficulty dragging the whimpering youth from his inadequate hiding place.

Cody was slim, but not scrawny. The hard life of a street whore had had multiple impacts on his body; he damn sure didn’t work out, but he had developed some muscles.

Even so, when the Trucker’s huge hands clamped onto the kid’s upper arms and lifted him into the air, they completely encircled the slut’s biceps with the inexorable strength of iron fetters.

The gasping rentboy started mewling in pain as he was lifted; the hulking sadist had squeezed the boy’s arms in slightly before using them to raise him straight up. His entire body weight was being supported by his shoulder joints—it was excruciating. Blubbering and sniveling, the helpless young slut kicked his Nikes pointlessly six inches off the floor.

The Trucker brought the shuddering kid closer to his face. “You didn’t see anything?” he hissed.

The terrified punk couldn’t speak; wide-eyed, he shook his head desperately. He was starting to sweat in fear and the long dyed hair on his head was dark with perspiration as the rapid motion of his head made it flutter.

Still glowering with a brutal rage, the Trucker spat into the boy’s face, then shook him violently. “So what were ya sayin’ to me when you hit me up, cunt? Huh? Answer me, you worthless sack of shit!”

“Look at me, whore,” the Trucker said with a tone of cold command. “Look me in the face.”

The trembling hustler obeyed the hard ring of domination in his assailant’s voice. As his eyes rose, his field of vision was filled first with the Trucker’s hulking, muscled chest, sweat matting the wiry fur. With each breath the strapping alpha took, the dogtags lying on the dark curls of hair shifted and glinted in the light.

Rising higher, his gaze swept up the dude’s thick neck, the tendons showing some of the strain from the effort of keeping him aloft. Above that was the guy’s face…

Cody hadn’t seen it clearly this close. The strong jaw and firm lips, circled by a black goatee just slightly longer than the scruff darkening the sculpted cheeks entranced him, but the blue eyes, cold and glittering as ice, held his attention intently.

Then the Trucker spoke—harshly and gleefully.

“Yer little pal Randy? He’s dead. I fucked him and snuffed him. He died squealing in pain and fear like the little faggot pig he was.”

He smiled broadly at the gaping youth and spat in his face again.

“So ya saw me with that useless homo, huh? And now he’s dead. So, whaddaya think I gotta do to you, queerboy?”

And with that, he dropped Cody.

The street whore fell in a crumpled mound of flesh and denim with his legs curled under him, only the black-and-white Air Jordans showing under his huddled body. Curled into a fetal ball, the weeping boy tried to understand what was happening.

After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t experienced danger in past. He was a back-alley whore and drug addict; he’d been beaten, he’d been robbed, he’d even been raped. And each time he’d gotten smarter and stronger. He’d been selling his body for cash and drugs for more than five years; now, at the age of twenty-one, he thought of himself as street-smart, able to spot the red flags and handle himself.

The Trucker nudged the scared youth with his foot, poking the toe of his boot into the boy’s ribs. “C’mon, cunt, look up here at me. Up here, bitch.”

Unwillingly, Cody lifted his head and peered at the towering stud through eyelids swollen with tears. The Trucker stood over him, legs spread and hands on his hips, sneering down with anger and contempt—and that was when Cody saw something that froze his blood.

The muscled alpha’s cock wasn’t limp anymore. It wasn’t fully erect yet, but it was swelling and darkening. As Cody watched in horror, it started to throb visibly. He knew why.

This buff, strapping older dude was getting hard at the thought of offin’ him. It was the only answer.

As this awareness percolated through his soft, drugged brain, it sparked a deep, feral panic in the heart of the cheap rentboy. Self-preservation kicked in and, with help from his innate arrogance, overcame his cowardice. The cowed youth rose up in defiance.

It was the worst choice of his short, wasted life.

Curling his legs under him, Cody felt his tight Air Jordans gain traction on the thin carpet as he propelled himself upwards, his smooth, lithe body tensed in stress and effort.

The Trucker was ready for the whore, naturally. He’d seen and recognized the gleam of desperation in the hustler’s eyes and was expecting a panicked lunge. As the kid popped up, the brawny top swung his powerful arm and backhanded the punk in the face.

Cody’s rebellion came crashing to the ground as his wiry young body slammed into the dresser. The slut dropped back to the floor like a sack of potatoes, frantically gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him. Clawing his way back to vertical, he threw up his arms to block the Trucker’s lunge.

It was useless. The older, stronger man knocked the hustler’s arms away and wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat. He squeezed and lifted, raising the slim youth into the air once again.

Cody clutched at the vise-like grip on his neck, instinctively and ineffectually trying to pry the Trucker’s fingers free. His hightops kicked and flailed in pain and panic as his esophagus collapsed under the weight of his entire body, dangling from the alpha’s steel-like grip.

The sadistic strongman spat a thick wad of phlegm into the boy’s darkening face. He grinned in a rage that scintillated with psychotic glee as the struggling youth clawed desperately at his wrists. “Shoulda kept yer eyes shut, huh, you worthless cumsuckin’ faggot?” he sneered. “Now I gotta waste ya. And since I gotta do it anyway, I might as well enjoy myself, right, cunt? Yeah?”

Squeezing his massive paws more tightly around the slut’s throat, he drew the jerking youth in closer to him. “Y’wanna know what I enjoy?” he hissed, his breath hot and malevolent on Cody’s swelling face. “I enjoy hurting fags. I like snuffing homo cunts. Get it, cocksucker? The more you suffer, the more I like it.”

Shaking the lean, shuddering form violently, the Trucker laughed aloud, a cold, harsh sound that was somehow more intimidating that his overt anger had been. As Cody felt his body flop limply in the air, helpless in the top’s powerful, bulging arms, he could also feel the truth of the stud’s claims.

Every time his smooth torso and strong but slender legs swung in towards the dominant killer’s body, some part of him made contact with the dude’s huge, hot cock. The massive spear of flesh was fully erect by now and Cody realized that it had been getting progressively harder as the psycho dude had been beating him. As the hard, spade-shaped head impacted the punk’s soft, creamy flesh, it left a smear of clear, slimy precum.

The crazy motherfucker wasn’t lyin’—he really did get off on inflicting pain.

The Trucker looked the terrified rentboy directly in the eyes as he spoke. “Tonight ain’t just gonna be the last night of your short life, you unlucky sack of shit—it’s gonna be the worst. And it’s gonna be worse than you can possibly imagine, you disgusting pansy-ass fairy!”

With that, he turned abruptly and hurled the young hustler into the chair and the small round table on the far side of the room, across from the bed. With a loud crash, the whore’s limp form knocked the furniture aside like bowling pins. Cody, as a result, impacted several hard objects before his battered and bruised body came to rest on the filthy thin carpet.

The young whore twisted and writhed in agony. He wasn’t mentally capable of understanding the details of the situation; his meth-tweaked awareness was swamped with torment and fear. He was only vaguely aware of the vibrations of the Trucker’s heavy tread that signaled his approach.

He became immediately much more aware of the cruel muscleman’s presence when the Trucker swung his heavy steel-toed engineer boot back and delivered a brutal kick directly to the slut’s vulnerable torso.

Cody writhed and convulsed as the devastating blow from the alpha’s thick black boot shattered two of his ribs, sending razor-sharp fragments of bone to rip through the youth’s internal organs. The whore squealed in horrific agony as his spleen, stomach and left lung were peppered as if by shrapnel. Reflexively, he rolled onto his right side in an involuntary attempt to escape from the source of pain.

The Trucker raised his leg and paused. Flinching, Cody hesitated, then peered up at the thick sole of the boot hanging directly over his face. It was all the vicious older stud had been waiting for. Tensing the huge muscles in his bulging, denim-wrapped thigh, he stomped on the cheap slut’s head as hard as he could, driving his booted foot down and feeling it grind squelchingly into the wailing punk’s vulnerable, unprepared face.

The sharp, deep tread of the thick rubber sole tore at Cody’s skin as his nose collapsed with a sickening crunch; the tread pattern was pounded so hard into his cheek that it was clearly visible in the bruises.

The Trucker drew his leg up again. For a brief moment, the traumatized whore had a glimpse of his attacker looming over him, about to inflict more pain. The well-built stud seemed more domineering than ever as he snarled down at the pain-wracked boy, his lips curled in disgust. His broad, hairy chest, shiny with sweat, expanded with each effort-borne grunt torn from the killer by the exertions of his thick muscles.

Again, the boot hung over Cody’s face. The rentboy made a half-hearted motion to dodge it, but the alpha dropped his foot with the speed and force of an industrial piston, catching the slut full on the mouth.

This time, the crunching sound was louder. This time, his black leather boot did much more damage. And this time, he was rewarded with a loud gurgling shriek as Cody’s lower jaw snapped in three places.

The young hustler rolled violently on the floor, squealing and mewling in wordless agony with his arms wrapped about his head. His flailing Nikes scraped furrows in the thin carpet. Sweat beaded on his smooth flat abdomen as he rode vast waves of pain and terror.

Some part of his cold and calculating street whore mentality was still functional; it had noted that the brutal stud had paused the attack. Lighting a smoke from the pack on the bedside table, the buff sadist was sitting on the bed and admiring his work. As he fondled his dogtags idly with one hand, his thick cock jutted like a prow from his crotch, angry and dripping in anticipation.

If Cody had a chance to escape, this was it; this was the longest and the farthest he’d been out of his assailant’s reach. But escape was no longer an option for him. Not only had his body been stomped and crushed, his mind had been beaten as well. His street-smart but drugged brain was unable to wrap itself around the events of the last half-hour.

What was happening? He’d followed this hot john back to his room. He was gonna earn a little money, drain the dude’s balls down his throat, take his forty bucks (and whatever else he could get without being noticed) and go hit up his dealer. Now—

But he couldn’t complete the thought. As his nervous system handled the unspeakable torment by going into physical shock, his psyche did much the same thing, blocking his panicked thoughts from reaching the logical conclusion.

Cody shut down, physically and mentally. He curled into a ball again, sobbing and wailing, thrashing about in pain as drool leaked from his twisted, misshapen mouth. The Trucker watched him intently, deeply enjoying the youth’s nightmarish suffering. He honestly hadn’t expected to get hard again tonight—after all, that last homo fucker had been a real workout—but damn if this smooth hot little faggot didn’t make his junk all stiff. And, as he’d said, he needed to make the cumsucking shitsack witness into meat anyway—might as well get his money’s worth, so to speak.

Leaving his butt to smolder in the ashtray, the Trucker rose and crossed swiftly to the shuddering ball of misery making him so unexpectedly horny. Swooping down, he snagged a handful of long blond hair and jerked the sniveling youth upright before pulling him excruciatingly to his feet the same way. The punk shrieked and quickly found his feet, standing up voluntarily to avoid having his scalp ripped open.

But the Trucker didn’t want him on his feet, he wanted him on the bed. Still grasping a fistful of hair, the older, stronger man tightly gripped the lower half of the boy’s face. With cruel and deliberate sadism, he squeezed viciously, feeling the jagged edges of broken bone grinding together in horrific torture under his relentless handhold.

The punk’s eyes rolled back in his head as the pain exceeded his toleration and he trembled on the edge of consciousness. His eyelashes fluttered as his body twitched limply against the killer’s hard, sculpted mass. With a swift, graceful twist, reminiscent of a master martial arts move, the Trucker flipped the slim, smooth cunt in an arc that spun him in the air before slamming him down onto the bed.

Cody found himself surfacing in a searing pool of sharp anguish. His breath was coming in jagged, painful gasps. He had no way of knowing that the splintered remains of his broken ribs had torn his left lung so badly that it was collapsing. Added to the constriction of his airway caused by his crushed nose and broken jaw, the young hustler quickly learned that the only thing more terrifying than the prospect of being beaten to death was that of suffocation.

He croaked and gurgled, clawing frantically at his face and throat. Each time he pawed uncontrollably at his jaw in a desperate attempt to improve his respiration, he suffered unbearable agony, but the fight for survival took precedence over the mere physical torture.

The Trucker watched in malevolent, erotic joy. Grinning, he approached the bed, his powerful, towering form imposing itself between Cody and the light, casting a huge dark shadow of doom over handsome, unlucky punk. Even in his hypoxic panic, the cheap drugged-out cunt was aware of the hard, cold killer.

As the alpha reached the bed, his erect shaft swam into Cody’s field of vision. Blurred as it was, it could still make out the dark purple mushroom-like head, visibly pulsing, each throb forcing a trickle of clear precum out to stream down from the tip like string of spit. Soon the Trucker was close enough that his eager ooze was splattering on the whore’s smooth, silky skin like hot candle wax.

The ice-cold, cruel killer looked down at his victim and gave the stunned and bewildered youth a smile so charming and charismatic that even in the depths of his wretched distress, the hardened street fag felt himself drawn in. For a split second of soft-focus blur induced by oxygen deprivation, Cody felt himself not only forgiving his attacker for the pain he’d endured, but also falling in love with him.

Then the Trucker spoke.

“Time to die, motherfucker. Time to take you out, you worthless cumdump. Before I do, though, think I’m gonna unload in ya. Might as well, since yer gonna get dumped in the garbage like soiled, cum-soaked underwear when I’m done with ya. Ain’t like anyone’s gonna care, not about you or your friend—you know, wassisname, the one I offed earlier. Heh, wonder if the disgusting cumpig has gotten stiff yet.”

An evil light of sadistic viciousness sparkled sharply in the Trucker’s blue eyes as he leaned down and whispered to the helpless, frightened, desperate young hustler. The well-used assfuck whore stretched his battered face into a silent plea for mercy from the stronger, older, more powerful man who now held his future existence in his rough, callused hands.

Mercy had never been on the table.

Sitting on the bed and spreading his thick, powerful legs, the Trucker snatched a handful of hair and Cody found himself being jerked roughly forward by his scalp yet again. Still using the better part of his strength just to remain conscious, the youthful slut found his face being used as a towel as the Trucker dragged his bruised and tender cheeks over his strongman’s massive pectorals, the alpha’s wiry, curly chest hair scraping the kid’s damaged cheeks like steel wool.

The punk’s face stung and burned as the stud’s salty sweat was rubbed into his open cuts; the sharp edges of the dogtags inflicted new slashes for the Trucker’s reeking perspiration to burn. The muscled alpha dragged the boy’s torn face back and forth across his chest several times before pulling his head back up.

“Lookitya, you stinking, disgusting pansy motherfucker. Time to die like a disgusting faggot worm. So ya like tellin’ folks what ya seen, huh? Ya like openin’ yer big fat fag mouth, huh? Good, cunt. Open it now. Open it and choke, you cocksucking piece a’ shit!”

The Trucker forced Cody’s head down onto his erect shaft, locking his arms into place behind his back with a single hand, strong as a steel bar.

The huge, oozing rod plunged deep into the whore’s esophagus; the large, spongy spear-shaped tip plugging his windpipe with brutal effectiveness. And that was when the ultimate twist of nightmare came into play—with his jaw broken, Cody couldn’t close his mouth.

He couldn’t bite down. And he wasn’t even remotely strong enough to break free from the powerful sadist’s grip.

He couldn’t breathe. He was choking to death on the dude’s cock.

Instantly, a white-hot sheet of panic inflamed his mind. Slim but strong, the lithe street punk didn’t just struggle, he fought for his life like a feral cat. He kicked and clawed frantically, managing to work his right hand free.

Then he made another bad mistake. Curling his fingers into claws, he flailed his hand until it found purchase in the killer’s curly fur and yanked out a few hairs.

Grunting more in anger than in pain, the Trucker knocked the offending hand away. “You stupid asswipe,” he hissed, “So you like pain, huh? Motherfuck, I’m gonna make sure you get plenty!” Glancing around in a blood-tinted rage, the furious savage killer spied a ball-point pen on the nightstand; a cheap promotional giveaway with the motel’s name and address printed on it.

In a towering paroxysm of wrath, he snatched up the pen and, wielding it like a knife, stabbed it through the hustler’s back and into his right kidney. It was blunt; it took a great deal of effort to drive the dull tip through the multiple layers of flesh and muscle until it reached the organ.

It took time, too. It wasn’t quick. And as the hard plastic was punched through his helpless, splayed body, Cody gagged and foamed on the huge throbbing tool plugging his throat. The tortured youth was making thick desperate gurgling sounds that didn’t sound human as his straining, tormented body responded to the intense trauma by flooding his bloodstream with hormones.

Cody writhed in the Trucker’s lap, his smooth back wet and glistening with a cold film of sweat stinking of adrenaline and testosterone. His slim, firm legs, still tightly wrapped in his skinny jeans, thrashed violently on the bed, his hightops catching at the sheets.

The Trucker left the pen in the boy’s back as he forced the cunt’s head down on his dick. He didn’t force it all the way down, though. The cunt had just enough space in his throat to suck down a minimal amount of oxygenated air before vomiting it back up in a frothy mass of drool.

“Goddam ass-lickin’ queer!” the powerful alpha grunted. “Take it, homo, or I’ll stick ya again—and this time I’ll make it hurt. You kick too much, bitch, and I’m fuckin’ sick of it. I’m gonna make sure this goes nice and smooth. Your fuckmeat friend took a lot outta me—drained my balls as he died in screaming agony. Ain’t gonna fight with you, you cheap faggot whore; you ain’t worth it. He was better lookin’ and a better fuck, dickbag. Lessee now, what’s a good way to teach you what happens to fuckin’ fag garbage that don’t know its place?”

It was probably for the best that Cody was incapable of seeing the Trucker’s face’ the expression alone would have made him lose control of his bowels.

“I got it, dude. Pigs don’t fly, fuckwad. I’ll clip your wings.”

The Trucker had such complete control over the weeping boywhore that by putting his elbow on the back of the slut’s head, he was able to keep his engorged shaft jammed down the shuddering boy’s throat. With both hands free, he was easily able to bend the kid’s left arm up. Gripping the arm just below the elbow with one hand and the wrist with the other, he applied pressure.

It really didn’t take too much before he was rewarded with a loud double cracking sound as both the radius and the ulna snapped like toothpicks under his bulging biceps. The unfortunate hustler convulsed in agony, his mind a blank sheet of flaming pain.

Next, the Trucker brought up the boy’s right arm. He stroked the pale, silky-smooth skin for a moment before brutally breaking that arm as well. This one didn’t go as well—at least not for Cody. The bones shattered into a greenstick fracture, tearing through the skin.

For the next few minutes, Cody ceased to exist. It was too much. The tough, street-smart, fucked-out boywhore who prided himself on being able to take anything his johns imposed on him, sank into a sea of pain. The kaleidoscopic colors danced in his nightmare of torture and trauma, red and white—and then, finally, black…a dark, cold, fiery, silent, screaming darkness…

The Trucker wrapped his hands in the long dyed strands of the punk’s hair, raising his head up just enough so that the kid didn’t pass out with the shaft plugging his throat. The vicious killer wasn’t done with Cody—yet.

He was close, though. Real close.

He hadn’t thought he’d be able to blow another load tonight; the last few days had been—energetic. Or was the word dynamic?

He paused to consider the best adjective to describe his brutal, manic killing spree as the battered and broken youth quivered in unconscious agony.

“Hhhuuunnnhhh…” Cody groaned as the pinpricks of awareness slowly intensified into excruciating pain. The Trucker’s evil smirk grew wider as he felt the whore’s smooth, slim body writhe and struggle in his lap with returning consciousness. “That’s it, cunt,” he whispered, “come back to me. Almost over now. Work for it, bitch, work for my load.”

Slowly, he began to force Cody back down, impaling his head a fraction of an inch at a time. The mangled rentboy was utterly enmeshed in an electric net of pain as his nervous system tried to process his physical agony, but (unfortunately) the nerves still functioned—all of them. He could feel the massive throbbing head of the alpha’s cock slip down his esophagus on a slick film of drool and precum. Each tiny motion of his head downward sent a fresh slash of fiery torture from his shattered jaw.

“Does it hurt, motherfucker?” the Trucker hissed quietly. “Toldja ya shoulda kept yer mouth shut—now ya can’t, huh? So you’re gonna take my dick all the way down, dude. All the way down into Hell. Here’s a protip, bitch—the sooner you make me cum, the sooner I’ll end it. Remember that, when it gets too intense for ya, you useless faggot. Milk me and I’ll end your pain forever.”

Cody understood what was happening; the mind-bending agony would have told him he was gonna die even had the muscle-bound killer’s taunts not laid out his immediate future with cruel glee.

He knew he was gonna die but he didn’t know why. And by now, it didn’t matter. The shuddering sack of meat that had been Cody was beyond the point of wondering about the motive for his murder.

The lean, sexy youth had started that evening using his streetwise skills to lure johns, trading his body for money and the money for drugs. Now his feral cunning was focused on surviving just a few more seconds.

Writhing in unspeakable agony, the punk gasped wetly as the thick pulsing shaft plugged his windpipe with excruciating slowness. Each panicked breath required more effort to draw—and more effort meant more pain wracking his helpless, half-nude body as the jagged edges of his broken bones tore new wounds inside him.

The dying hustler had no choice but to obey the powerful stud who was now controlling the last few seconds of his life. The Trucker’s enormous tool was fully inserted. Wiry pubic hair scraped the slut’s face like steel wool—a mangled face, mashed against the Trucker’s scrotum, increasing the cunt’s misery as the strapping alpha’s huge balls pressed relentlessly into his jaw, grinding the serrated ends of broken bones together.

Worst of all, though, was the pain of suffocation. A huge, pulsating tube of flesh completely filled his throat, the thick blood vessels wrapped around it acting as gaskets, utterly plugging the flow of air.

The red, slashing haze of agony that enveloped the kid was thicker than the fog outside—but it all stemmed from the enormous cock choking him. As the oxygen level in his blood dropped, he began to thrash, desperately seeking more air. The harder he jerked, the more his wounds opened. The pen that had been jammed into his kidney slashed its blunt tip through that organ while his broken arms flopped uselessly. Slow asphyxiation even increased the pain in his crushed nose as the cunt kept trying to fill his sinuses in a vacuum.

The only parts of him that still functioned were his legs, kicking and flailing violently as his Air Jordans snagged on the cheap sheets. The punk’s jerking sneakers tangled in the thin material, though, limiting their usefulness to the dying whore.

Actually, though, there were other parts of him that still worked. His brain was suffering progressive damage from hypoxia, but it was still able to process the input from his screaming nervous system. The quivering, dying boycunt was beyond all concepts of life and death and was now little more than meat responding to stimuli.

One piece of meat that was responding was his dick. He was face down on the bed, his head clamped immovably in the Trucker’s crotch. As his lean, lithe body shuddered during his drawn-out agony, it slid and slipped on the cold, rank sweat that was squeezed out of him in his death throes. His thin but long dick, pressed between the moist sheets and his equally slick, smooth belly, was being rubbed into an involuntary state of erection.

The more Cody kicked and died, the closer he got to cumming.

“Fuckin’-A, fag, die,” the Trucker grunted as his powerful muscles tightened with approaching orgasm. His entire body, glistening with mansex sweat, shuddered with pleasure, making his dogtags jump and jingle on his huge, furry chest. “C’mon, you worthless piece a’ shit, take my load and die on my dick. So close, cocksucker, so fuckin’ close to puttin’ yer lights out for good—FUCK!!!”

Cody’s brain had been starved of oxygen too long; it lost control of the voluntary nervous system. The maimed, damaged cunt convulsed frenetically, twisting his fractured arms into agonizing positions as his legs kicked uncontrollably. The sheet was still tangled around his sneakers; as his feet jerked violently, the thin, yellowed fabric failed under the strain and tore noisily.

It was his head, though, that was responsible for the Trucker’s outcry. It bobbed up and down as the helpless rentboy contorted in his death throes. The dying whore spent his last moments alive giving his killer involuntary head; it made the sadistic killer blow his load.

The unfortunate Cody had a last hint of what was happening as the final spark of life guttered out in his terror-wracked mind. It was a final nightmarish impression of drowning, not in water, but in lava…or maybe molten lead…a hot thick smoky liquid searing his lungs…

A white-hot bolt of excruciating electricity fired in his groin; the trembling hustler never knew that he’d shot his death load onto the stained mattress, the warm milky wad smearing between the scratchy fabric and his smooth, flat belly.

The corpse’s blackened face was all but invisible in the cruel top’s crotch. The rhythmic convulsions of a dying body were replaced with the random but intense twitching of a body already dead. Each time the boywhore jerked, thick pearly foam that was equal parts drool and spunk was forced past the swollen, blue lips, matting the Trucker’s pubic hair.

The Trucker gasped and shuddered, sending one last powerful jet of semen deep into the faggot whore’s lungs. The corpse was still quivering, mindless meat with no control, as the Trucker pulled the head up off his sticky, glazed shaft. Tossing the head away from him like the garbage it was, the Trucker reached over and grabbed another cigarette from the pack on the nightstand. He leaned back, admiring his own erect cock, still throbbing and oozing from the tip.

The dead whore slowly slid halfway off the bed, headfirst, landing with the dark, mangled, spunk-smeared face buried in the filthy carpet. Up on the bed, the cunt’s expensive kicks were still jerking as the corpse began the long process of cooling and stiffening.

The Trucker flicked his ash around randomly; he damn sure wasn’t gonna sleep here now. He was gonna jump in the shower and head back to his truck. He was still making plans as he ground out his smoldering butt in the small of the fag’s back, the dead skin sizzling and blackening as the cherry scorched it.

Heading into the bathroom, the Trucker had already decided what he needed to do next. He was tired, but he didn’t have any time to rest. He needed to put some distance between these dead homos and himself. Not that he regretted tonight; this last little fucker had taught him a valuable lesson about witnesses.

There was a loose end he needed to handle. He’d get clean, get out—and get that one fuck who could ID him.

=====================================================================

By the evening of the same day, the wind had picked up again, blowing the haze away. The night was clear but cold as Mark raced down the highway towards San Amadeo. The news of a double killing in the next state had electrified the profiler; he knew, just from the initial reports of the crimes, that it was the serial killer he was tracking.

As his government-issued Ford hurtled east, he devoutly wished he’d been able to reach Dan. These murders had stirred something deep within him. Viewing the bodies, he’d he been horrified—and aroused.

And the things he’d found on that trooper’s phone…

He hadn’t reported the texts—the photos—the videos, dear God, those videos—that he’d found stored on the dead cop’s phone. But as he watched them in his car, he’d felt his cock stiffen.

Mark was terrified. He didn’t know why these gruesome scenes of rape and murder got him hard. And Dan was on assignment, out of pocket. Dan could have talked him down.

Mark thought that phone sex with Dan was almost as good as the real thing—almost. It sure would have made him feel better about whatever the fuck he was feeling right now.

That wasn’t an option at the moment, though. And he couldn’t ask were Dan was. Both were so deep in the closet that no one at the FBI realized that either one was gay, much less that they fucked like rabbits whenever they got the chance.

So Mark was on his own, chasing a killer with more than just professional interest. He had personal questions, and this vicious serial killer might have the answers. He needed to find the dude before anyone else.

He put his foot on the floor. The Ford whined as it accelerated, speeding into the frigid night towards a murder scene.

It was trouble, of course; the Trucker was intelligent enough to realize that right away.

If nothing else, the timing would have told him that. Not very likely that it’d be a coincidence that someone was banging at the door minutes after he’d wasted a bitch. He wasn’t prepared to deal with anyone but he was cold-blooded enough that it didn’t worry him much. But after dragging the twitching corpse into the bathroom, the Trucker had stripped—he’d wanted to clean himself off before hoisting the body into the tub, since he planned to leave it in there when he left.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he closed the door behind him, leaving the shower running. He strode towards the door, totally nude, his dick still erect, jutting out in front of him, thick and purple. With the shower running behindff the closed bathroom door, he could say he’d just had sex and the slut was cleaning up.

After all, with the door closed, the corpse on the bathroom floor couldn’t be seen.

And the Trucker decided he wanted to answer the door nude. He was well aware of his imposing physique and the impression it made on others. A little intimidation always came in handy in a situation like this.

And while he hadn’t been caught with a raped and murdered boy in a motel room before, he’d had some close calls. That last kid he’d done on his prior route, the one before the Marine. His older brother had walked in before he was finished. And then—

The Trucker grinned at the memory as he worked the locks on the door, only slightly aware that his reminiscences had made his cock start oozing precum again.

Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t a gun.

The man holding it was familiar. And a cop—a trooper…it clicked. That cunt he’d picked up on the side of the road; the one he’d tossed in a ditch like the garbage he was—this was the cop that had come up to his truck while he was snuffing the faggot.

For the first time in his life, the Trucker was genuinely caught off guard. He was careful and very, very good at what he did. He was truly stunned to find that he’d been traced like this.

The Trooper, for his part, was just as stunned. With his sidearm out and at the ready, he’d started in gleeful ecstasy, recognizing the face of the man he’d hunted for so long. But as he turned his attention downward and took in the Trucker’s body, glistening with sweat from his recent exertions, he was subsumed in a rising tide of lust. And that huge dripping shaft dangling out in front…

The Trucker saw the Trooper’s gaze slide down his body; he also notice the tentpole rising in the crotch of the tight khaki slacks the Trooper was wearing. The young cop looked back up into the Trucker’s face—he was about four inches shorter than the older man—his eyes glittering with desire.

“Get back in that room, motherfucker,” he hissed. “Quiet and slow, asshole. I can put a hole the size of my fist in your guts and claim self-defense and ain’t no one in this part of the state gonna question it, so move. NOW.” He motioned with the large nickel-plated handgun—it looked like a .45.

As the Trucker carefully stepped backward into the room, he felt every predatory sense he possessed as a hunter engage. He knew that his life was in danger, but there was more going on here.

The Trooper entered the room at the same snail’s pace with which the Trucker backed away. Once he was fully inside the room, he kicked back, his high black leather boot connecting with the door and swinging it shut, the automatic lock engaging with a loud click.

The deathly silence that enveloped the room belied the vortex of manscent and testosterone that swirled as two expert killers sized up each other.

The Trooper slowly circled to the left, inching towards the bathroom with a careful sidestep motion. He stood directly in front of the door and reached behind him to grab the doorknob, never removing his eyes—or the barrel of the gun—from the Trucker until he got the door open. Then he took a quick glance into the steam-filled room, but the gun never wavered.

His head was turned for only a split second and the Trucker was too far away to reach him in that time. He didn’t even try. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t looking for some weak spot to attack. He was in deep shit; that was obvious. And yet, somehow, the thought of arrest never crossed his mind. That wasn’t the point here, and he knew it.

If he hadn’t, the look on the Trooper’s face as he turned back would have been a good clue. The salacious grin, the evil leer twisting his young, handsome face, were the first hint; the swift enlargement of the bulge in his groin was the second. The cop must be hung like a horse. A well-hung horse, at that.

The Trooper chuckled. “Damn, dude, ya did a good job on him. Not as good as the last one, but better than the others.”

There was a short pause, then the Trucker replied with a brief question. “How long?”

“I found your first boytoy where ya dropped him off—in that gully. Or was he the first? Where’d ya get those dogtags, asswipe? You in the military? Doubt it. But I do remember an alert about a Marine got himself raped and strangled several days ago.”

“What you’re gonna do, jackoff, is get over there against the radiator,” snapped the Trooper. “Move it, motherfucker!”

The Trucker moved back to the radiator in the far corner of the room, on the far side of the nightstand, as the young man approached, reaching down to open a pocket on his duty belt and slip out a pair of handcuffs.

The Trooper pressed forward, forcing the Trucker up against the wall. Standing face to face with the older man, he had to look slightly up, the four-inch height differential forced him to look slightly upwards. But he wasn’t too short to jam the muzzle of the handgun painfully against the Trucker’s temple…

At this close range, the Trucker could see that his buzz-cut hair had a reddish tint and the five o’clock shadow starting to darken his smooth cheeks was red-gold. His blue eyes were colder than ice; they glittered like chips of quartz.

It was unmistakable. The Trucker had seen it dozens of times before. They were glittering with lust.

Before he’d had the chance to process this information, the Trooper had whipped out the cuffs and bound him to the radiator with the swiftness of a well-practiced maneuver.

Then the cop backed towards the bed. Setting his gun down on the disheveled, semen-soaked sheets, he slowly began unbuttoning his short-sleeve khaki dress shirt. He slipped it off, revealing his simple white cotton t-shirt tucked into his trousers. It stretched so tightly over his broad pecs that his large nipples stood out far enough to cast small shadows.

The Trucker stood still, trying to decide how to deal with the situation. He knew better than to show emotion; he was a master of using a chink in emotional armor to break his victim’s spirit. And that, more than anything else, was what gave him pause. He was facing someone who might be his equal.

Not all of his prey were twinks; he’d offed some pretty strong dudes. But they were sluts and whores, taken by surprise. He might get the jump momentarily on this guy, but the cop would be quick to react.

Had he killed before? That was the question the Trucker had to figure out. In a struggle to the death, there are certain factors to take into account. There are unexpected movements from the dying pig, unexpected urges and desires in the killer…

If the hot young stud slowly stripping in front of him hadn’t killed, the Trucker still had an advantage. But if he was an experienced predator, this could be bad.

Very, very bad.

The Trooper sat gingerly on the bed, avoiding the wet spots. Crossing his legs, one at a time, he pulled off his high, glossy leather boots and set them at the foot of the bed. Standing back up, he slowly unbuckled his dress belt and unfastened his pants, leaving his duty belt still clasped. He glanced down as he did so, but after confirming that the slacks still clung to his hips, almost immediately turned his flinty eyes up to leer at the Trucker.

Despite his resolve, the Trucker was unable to prevent the obvious swelling of his tool, the increased amount of precum bubbling out of his thick purple head. The Trooper’s expression of malicious triumph was as maddening as his body was mesmerizing; it was as if his personality changed to match the look on his face.

The cop’s lascivious grin gave his handsome, almost model-worthy face an impish look. When he broke eye contact to unfasten the catch on his duty belt, though, his face fell back into an unpleasant arrogant expression.

The younger man placed his duty belt on the nightstand but the weight of the baton threw it off balance and it slid to the floor. With a muttered curse, the hard-bodied rogue lawman reached down and unsnapped the loop that held the two-foot aluminum baton in place. He kicked out with his foot, his white sock bright against the black side handle, shoving the weapon away from him (although no closer to the Trucker). Snatching up the belt, he tossed it back onto the nightstand, where it landed loudly—there were several more items still in it. The Trucker could see a small container of pepper spray and another pair of cuffs, among other things.

The Trooper dropped his pants and immediately gathered up his uniform, carefully folding both shirt and slacks before laying them on the dresser.

As he moved, his firm, muscular body flexed in his t-shirt, gray boxers and calf-high white athletic socks. His bulging thighs and biceps were smooth, but his forearms and calves shimmered with a faint reddish-gold haze from a light furry fuzz. Almost irrelevantly, the Trucker noticed the sharp, defined line where the cop’s buzz-cut hair ended on the back of his head.

Turning towards his captive, the Trooper smiled sardonically in acknowledgement of the effect he was having on the older man. He executed a sort of strip-tease, peeling the t-shirt off his sculpted torso and slowly sliding the boxers down his thick legs, revealing a thick, dripping tube of flesh that nearly equaled the Trucker’s own in size, hanging semi-limply from a bushy mass of strawberry-blond curls.

The Trooper stood with his legs spread, nude except for the socks up his calves, grinning at the Trucker. “Like what ya see, asshole? Bet ya do, you fuckin’ psycho faggot.” He twisted to the left, snatching his huge .45 off the bed before advancing on his prisoner.

He was good. The Trucker hadn’t seen him palm the key to the cuffs. The younger man had almost managed to get them unlocked before the Trucker caught on. But for a moment—just the briefest moment—the Trooper needed both hands to work the key. He never let go of the gun, using his thumb and the last two fingers to brace the cuff itself, but the barrel was no longer pointed right at the Trucker.

That was when the cuffs popped open, freeing the older man’s hand. The Trucker was just as calm and cold as the cop, still in control despite his lust. His wits were about him, enough, at least, to take advantage of this momentary break.

In the blink of an eye, he knocked the gun out of the young cop’s hand; it clattered on top of the table in front of the window, skittering across the surface before sliding off into the corner behind the chair.

Both men stared at the corner, processing the fact that the weapon was out of the immediate reach of both. Then they looked at each other, each sizing up the other in the realization that this was going to be a fight to the death.

But death, when it came for the loser, would be a welcome relief, a blessed escape from agony and humiliation.

Two well-built, muscular men regarded each other in full awareness that only one of them was going to leave the room alive. And the one that didn’t was going to suffer a brutal rape and unimaginable torture.

Each one kept a razor-sharp eye contact with the other, seeking any sign, any signal of a weak spot. They circled slowly, unconsciously moving clockwise—the space between the bed and the wall just barely big enough for them to remain out of arm’s reach while doing so.

They lunged simultaneously.

They struggled in silence at first, a silence fraught with desperate tension and lust, a silence punctuated by deep grunts of physical exertion as they grappled. The Trucker’s hands were clenched around the Trooper’s bulging, flexing biceps as he tried to force him back. The younger man was doing the same with his hands placed on his adversary’s forearms, just below the elbow.

They circled again, tightly gripped in each other’s arms. When they made eye contact, they were only inches apart; the expressions of contemptuous lust was obvious. An impartial observer might have thought of Greco-Roman wrestling—except that both of these guys were so hard they were swordfighting, their cocks slapping together as they manhandled each other.

Then the Trooper twisted in the Trucker’s arms. Before the older man could react, the cop jerked his leg in a swift sidesweep and knocked his adversary’s feet out from under him. The Trucker hit the floor on his back, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could get it back, the solidly-muscled younger man threw himself down hard on top of him.

Now the Trucker had no air at all. As he fought to breathe, he saw the cop’s balled fist draw back and he knew it was aimed at his face.

Damned if he was gonna let it land there.

The Trooper released his roundhouse piledriver—back in the Academy, he’d knocked a combat instructor out cold with this move—expecting to end the battle. But the older man managed to get his hand up and deflect the blow. The Trooper had put too much force into it and overbalanced himself, falling forward onto the Trucker.

The Trucker had a snapshot visual of the scene: the rogue cop was lying face-down on top of him, his head next to the Trucker’s on the right side. His neck would have been directly on the Trucker’s neck if his right arm—the one he’d used to throw the punch—wasn’t between them.

He certainly wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. Wrapping a thick, muscular arm around the younger man’s neck, the Trucker applied as much pressure as he could.

It took a moment for the Trooper to realize the change in power structure. His first thought was to regain control, so he pushed back up off the predator. Well aware of the danger he was in, he felt a twinge of fear when he heard the older man gasp. It meant he was getting his air—and his wits—back.

And right now he had control over the Trooper. He was larger, too. This wasn’t just dangerous, this was deadly. He needed to keep calm and find a way out.

By twisting his head to one side, the Trooper managed to find a space in the crook of the Trucker’s arm where he could free his windpipe enough to inhale slight amounts of air.

The gun was on the far side of the Trucker. The Trooper lunged in the other direction, trying to reach his duty belt, even if he had to physically drag the larger man with him. He was strong enough to do it.

Scrabbling desperately at the carpet, the Trooper inched his way forward. The Trucker felt the younger man’s hard body twisting and struggling in his arms. Glancing up, he realized the cop’s fingers had come within reach of the baton.

The weapon would tip the balance of power back into the Trooper’s favor. They both knew it, and both reacted accordingly. The Trooper was able to grasp the side handle and actually pick up the baton. The Trucker drew his leg up under himself and pushed up, physically lifting both of them off the floor. As he gained his feet, he managed to keep the cop off his.

Fighting for balance, the Trooper was unable to aim his blows. He swung the baton forcefully but wildly. A couple of random blows struck the Trucker—not seriously, but painfully on the shoulder and across the chest.

Enraged, the Trucker grabbed at the baton, but the Trooper was swinging it too erratically. It was clear to the older man that he needed to disable his opponent as soon as possible or he would be in serious shit.

His strong, bulging arm was still wrapped around the Trooper’s neck. The Trucker twisted violently to the side and bent down, forcing the younger man to bend at the waist as well.

Drawing back his free arm, the Trucker began slamming his fist into the Trooper’s handsome face, repeatedly driving blow after brutal blow into the dazed cop’s face.

The Trooper was in pain and afraid—quite possibly for the first time in his life. His position of authority cowed most of the guys he’d come up against, and he’d been stronger and faster than the remaining few, overpowering them quickly.

This—this wasn’t supposed to be happening. He flailed with the baton, frantically trying to land a blow on his assailant while his face was being beaten to hamburger.

The Trucker had had enough. He spun the young man around so he stood, stunned and swaying, facing him. Looping his arm back, he pounded his fist with full force into the Trooper’s jaw, sending the cop flying backwards. He hit he bed and flipped over onto his back, losing his hold on the baton.

But the Trooper wasn’t out. Despite the pain in his swelling face, his training kicked in. Bringing his feet up and twisting slightly to the right, he managed to roll off the foot of the bed, putting some space between himself and the Trucker—a brief respite that wouldn’t last long, but might last long enough. He was young and strong and could recover quickly.

Shifting his balance quickly, like a feral cat, the lithe, muscular cop crouched at the foot of the bed. Noticing that the baton was on the floor not far away, he moved his arm towards it—slowly, so he wouldn’t alert the Trucker, who couldn’t see the baton from where he was standing.

Just as his fingers grasped the handle, the Trucker lunged. The younger stud leaped up from his crouching position, swinging the weapon and hoping to blindside his opponent. He did—not as completely as he’d hoped; he’d been hoping to go upside the psycho fucker’s head, but the hard-bodied older man turned slightly at the last moment and took the aluminum baton hard across the thick bicep of his dominant arm.

The Trooper had put a lot of energy in the blow—if he’d hit the dead twink in the bathroom that hard, he’d have shattered the bone. He didn’t come anywhere near close to doing that to the Trucker, but it was still a stunning, painful blow.

The Trucker was thrown off his game for a moment—and again, the younger man was able to use that brief pause to his advantage. Swiftly slipping behind the momentarily disabled man, the Trooper swung the baton out horizontally in front of the Trucker at neck level before catching the far end in the crook of his other elbow.

He immediately started to squeeze, garroting the older man with the shaft. The Trucker knew instantly what was happening. The little punk cop was trying to choke him into submission. He wasn’t gonna kill him, not yet—just weaken him to the point where he would be unable to resist whatever the Trooper wanted to do to him.

And he knew what the Trooper would do to him. It was the same thing he’d do to the younger man if he could manage to take him down.

The Trucker fought it. The crushing pain in his throat increased as he struggled harder, feeling the Trooper’s hard smooth chest tightly pressed against his back. Jerking his head back, his cheek brushed that of his assailant, his dark scruff scraping against the cop’s golden fuzz.

His ears were ringing and his vision was starting to dim—and again, he knew exactly what was happening. It wasn’t gonna happen to him, goddammit. This fucking cocksucker wasn’t gonna fuck him.

He twisted violently to the left, then abruptly reversed course, throwing himself back with his elbow out and jamming it into the Trooper’s abdomen. The younger man’s belly was smooth, firm, and flat, but it wasn’t strong enough to resist the brutal blow. With a loud, breathy grunt, the cop dropped the baton. It tumbled to the far corner of the bed, momentarily out of reach.

Both men fell gasping to their knees, the Trucker’s hand at his throat as he, starved for oxygen, inhaled greedily. Next to him—within arm’s reach, in fact—the Trooper was doubled up, his forehead almost touching the floor. In his crouching position, his calves bulged in the tight white tube socks.

Out of the corner of his right eye, the Trucker caught sight of the cop’s duty belt still lying on top of the nightstand. Forcing his bruised windpipe to relax and open, he gasped loudly and dove for the webbed tactical belt—there were things he could use on it. At the last second, the Trooper, alerted by the sound, noticed the Trucker’s lunge and willed himself upright to block his opponent.

They both got their hands on the belt simultaneously. Their eyes met for a moment; the pause could only have lasted a fraction of a second but the electric sexual tension between the nude muscular men crackled almost audibly. The flinty blue eyes of the younger man gleamed with rage, fear and lust—or were those reflections from the Trucker’s equally icy glare? It was impossible to tell, both muscular bodies, heaving with exertion and slick with sweat, exuded testosterone and manscent in a fog of hate-fueled lust.

The Trooper was younger, and that was to his advantage. He had slightly more energy and slightly faster reflexes.

What he didn’t have was experience. He’d killed before—the Trucker had figured that out by now—but not often. He’d probably taken out a few rentboys and drug addicts, youthful offenders who didn’t expect a sexual assault from that angle and were utterly unable to resist in any case, given the overpowering might of weapons the Trooper carried.

He wasn’t used to a battle for his life, and he was afraid. The Trucker was afraid, too; he knew exactly what was at stake. But the Trucker had enough control over himself to deal with the fear and move on. The Trooper got careless. In his panic, he telegraphed his moves with his eyes, glancing down at his arm before swinging it at the Trucker.

The older man took the hint and used it. As the blond youth, hair dark with sweat, jerked his fist at the Trucker’s face, the hard killer pulled his head back and brought his hand up against the Trooper’s head, hard, fast and strong.

Before the young cop knew what was happening, the Trucker had slammed his head down on the nightstand, completely stunning the hard-bodied youth. The Trooper grunted in pain, disoriented by the blow. The Trucker grabbed the duty belt and quickly began fumbling at the catch of the strap holding the pepper spray.

Suddenly, the belt was jerked out of his hands. Groaning audibly, the Trooper had managed to snatch the dangling end of the belt. Clinging to it, he fell to his knees, using his weight to yank it away from his assailant.

The Trucker looked down at the cop who swayed woozily on his knees. The cop looked wearily up at him and broke into a weary smile—and the Trucker noticed the punk had managed to get the pepper spray out.

There was no time to think. Again, the Trucker’s experience—aided by his reflexes and strength—held the advantage. He literally fell on the boy, his left knee striking the Trooper’s right arm hard enough to knock the pepper spray loose. The small canister rolled out of reach under the bed. At the same time, the older man grasped the killer cop’s head with both hands, slamming the psycho stud into the nightstand laterally. The blond muscled youth slumped unconscious to the floor.

The battle was over. Time for the games to begin.

The Trucker took a few moments to recover. He was a hard, strong man but this kid had been nearly his physical equal. He’d almost been beat. He’d almost been the meat. This fucker—this goddam cocksucking motherfucker!

The rage boiled over in him; he vented it by spitting on the cop’s head as the younger man lolled limply on the floor. The Trucker kicked the punk’s head, knocking it to one side. As he ground the sole of his foot into the slack face of the senseless youth, his cock began to swell and throb.

“Stupid piece of shit, thought you were gonna fuck me?” he hissed in a vindictive whisper. ”Oh fuck, dude, I got a first-class reservation in hell for you. Let’s get ya ready for the trip.”

Bending down, the Trucker grabbed the Trooper’s limp form under the arms and manhandled the firm, sweat-slicked body onto the bed. The older man’s rigid shaft pressed against the firm insensate torso, leaving a snail-like trail of clear precum across the inert cop’s smooth skin. He dropped the punk on his back on the bed like a sack of potatoes.

The duty belt was still on the floor. Retrieving it, the Trucker unsnapped the pocket holding the backup cuffs. He didn’t know where the key was, and he didn’t care. And by the time he was done, the Trooper would be long past caring whether his hands were cuffed or not.

Before then, however—remembering the fight the Trooper put up, the Trucker made sure his hands were firmly cuffed to each other around the tarnished faux-brass headboard. The cop lay splayed out, a muscular blond god bound for sacrifice.

The older man sneered down at his captive. “You fuckin’ worthless piece of shit,” he jeered, “yer gonna wake up to your worst nightmare.” Placing his large strong hands on the youth’s firm but supine form, the Trucker slowly caressed the hard, smooth chest. Sliding his hands down the sweaty flat stomach, he curled his fingers in the golden nest of pubes at the base of the Trooper long, flaccid shaft.

Digging his hands into the short wiry mass of hair, the Trucker sneered and yanked, hard. The punk cop was still out cold, but even in his unconsciousness, his thick cock jerked and throbbed. The older man, with his greater experience, knew what that meant. His malicious grin widened in anticipation. This psycho fucking cunt was into pain, all right—both giving and getting.

Well, good. Maybe tonight wasn’t gonna to be a total loss for him, the Trucker thought. Although, he had to admit, the well-built youth himself was gonna be a total loss. More precum dripped out of his pulsing dick.

Regaining some control, he continued fondling the cop’s body, running his hands down the thickly-muscled legs to the calves, where smooth skin gave way to the white tube socks just below the knee. Suddenly, the handsome blond shuddered and moaned, his eyelids fluttering as awareness began painfully to return.

“Welcome back, you sick fucking bastard,” the Trucker jeered, “ya ready for some fun? C’mon, fuckmeat, wakey, wakey. I wanna hear ya scream.” Rearing back his large hand, he bitchslapped the helpless youth, his palm leaving a large red imprint on the cop’s cheek.

The younger man blinked blearily and stared at the Trucker, his face a smooth dazed mask. As his memory returned, the color drained out of his face and was replaced with horror. Even as he began to jerk his arms frantically—and futilely—against his restraints, it was clear that he was fully aware of the situation.

Still, the sadistic older dude thought, nothing wrong with filling in the details. After all, he was sure, the budding serial killer would have some interest in his own demise. Might as well let him in on the fun—eventually.

First things first. The Trucker wanted to be fully inserted in the punk before he could tense up and fight the D. He wanted the strapping young man to struggle on his cock, but he wanted it all the way down his shaft.

Forcing the blond stud’s legs abruptly apart, he lunged forward, spearing the blond’s pulsing pink sphincter with virtually no warning. Before the writhing cop could react, the Trucker’s massive tool had plunged deep into his guts like a harpoon, the only lube being the slimy layer of precum oozing from the alpha’s cock—and blood, as the Trooper’s ass muscle was torn during the assault.

The Trooper opened his mouth wide and shrieked. The Trucker didn’t care. His usual caution had deserted him in his blinding anger against this arrogant piece of shit who dared to try to rape him. And in the back of his mind, he knew that the adjacent rooms were empty from when he’d brought that twink back—the one who was stiffening on the bathroom floor…

“Oh yeah! That’s it, cunt, lemme know how much ya like my cock, you fuckin’ psycho faggot! Go ahead and try to push it out, just like that, yeah, bitch—damn, I can feel your fuckhole strokin’ my shaft. Goddam, you’re a worthless excuse for a cop but you’re a great fuck—and we ain’t even started the fun stuff yet!”

Despite his agony, this remark caught the Trooper’s attention. His large blue eyes had been squeezed shut in pain, but now they opened wide. He wasn’t gonna think about the “fun”. He knew what he’d been planning to do to the killer stud when he got control—and he was sure this dude was gonna be even more extreme.

The Trucker noted the blond cop’s fear and grinned. The dead Marine’s dogtags danced and jingled before the captive youth’s eyes as the alpha continued to the thrust and pump, his hard, sweaty body in constant fluid motion.

“Ya get it, boy?” the Trucker hissed. “You’re my bitch now. I’m gonna use you like a cheap cumrag, you fuckin’ pervert homo cop. Ya like my shaft up your hole, ya piece of shit? Yeah? Then work it, cunt, work it like ya love it—or I’ll make ya work it.”

He leaned down over the Trooper, close enough to see the individual beads of sweat on the punk’s forehead, and whispered, “and if I make ya, it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt. I promise. Got it?”

The blond cop nodded, quickly and jerkily. He damn well knew it was gonna hurt. But he’d take the pain, he’d take all the pain if it meant a chance of getting out alive…

The Trucker chuckled. He had enough experience to know what was running through the fuckmeat’s mind. The hot hard youth would submit until he realized that there was no hope of survival. The Trucker, of course, would make sure that by the time his victim realized the truth, he’d have been tortured beyond the point of effective resistance.

Stupid fucker shoulda known better. He’d done this before. The Trucker was certain of it. Good—he was gonna enjoy this one so fucking much. Most of his victims hadn’t thought about death to any great extent; this one was just as turned on by it as he was.

This guy knew exactly what was happening to him as it happened. He didn’t just know what was being done to him, he knew why. He knew which physical response was associated with which form of trauma.

The Trooper had nowhere to hide. Unless his psyche shattered under the stress, he would be excruciatingly aware of the purpose behind every act of pain.

Placing his hands on the young cop’s broad, smooth, sweaty pecs, the Trucker braced himself as he ramped up the speed of his thrusting. His thick, engorged shaft plunged deep into the blond youth’s torn fuckhole in a split second; the swollen purple head caught against the rectal wall, scraping it agonizingly as it was viciously withdrawn with the force of a plunger.

The punk cop moaned and squealed in pain that bordered on agony—and pleasure. He was terrified, not just afraid of getting raped and murdered, but of liking the sensation of tortuous agony so much that he assisted with his own death. He couldn’t let it happen, he couldn’t be found like this…

He began to resist. He jerked his hard muscled arms forcefully but futilely against the case-hardened steel cuffs that bound him to the bed. The jingling of the Trucker’s dogtags was drowned out by the clanging sounds of the cuffs against the cheap brass-colored aluminum headboard.

“Get off me, you sick fucking lunatic!” he barked, finding his voice. “You ain’t gonna be the man who takes me down!”

The Trucker smiled gently down into the writhing cop’s face, watching it twist and darken in a rage fueled by fear. The punk could yell all he wanted; nobody could hear him and he had no way out.

Of course, it might not be a bad idea to remind him of the latter fact.

“You’re already down, cunt,” the buff older man whispered. The effect was more chilling than if he’d snarled in anger. “Only question, is how long it’s gonna take you to die on my cock. Your fuckhole ain’t tight enough, you faggot—you been getting’ banged a lot? Bendin’ over and takin’ the dick during them all-night orgies at the trooper barracks? Bet ya let every one of them cops ride yer ass, huh, you worthless homo slut?”

The Trooper rose to the bait, kicking and jerking—and clenching his sphincter. His muscles grew tense in an involuntary rage response, causing him to clamp his colon down on the Trucker’s thick, pulsating shaft. “GET OFF ME YOU SICK FUCK!!!” he screeched, unaware that the horrible intensification of pain in his ass was his own fault.

The Trooper thrashed wildly, his hard body sliding on a sheen of sweat under the Trucker’s hands. The alpha rapist could feel the younger man’s tight pectoral muscles working under his smooth flesh as he struggled uselessly to free himself. His long, thick legs wrapped around the Trucker’s before the cop bent his knees and tried to get his feet up under his assailant’s body to lift him off.

“Stupid piece a’ shit, you should know better than that,” the Trucker snapped harshly before backhanding the Trooper across the face. It was an effective ploy; the pain in his handsome but already bruised face made the youth pause and gave the Trucker time to lay his full weight on top of the cop, using gravity to add momentum to his thrust and jamming his engorged shaft deep inside the Trooper’s guts.

The young blond howled in agony, his mind floundering in such agony that he—almost—didn’t register the sensation of the Trucker’s slick flat belly pressed against his own, both sliding together in warm, erotic contact. There was a scraping pain at each end, though, as the wiry hair on the alpha’s abdomen scoured his skin and the darker pubic hair of the older man tore at his own blond curls.

The cop’s heart constricted in terror when he felt something cold circling his neck. Even though, deep in his dark, twisted soul, he knew how this would end, his conscious mind still expected to break free. He couldn’t die. But if it was starting—

Then he realized that the Trucker’s dogtags had settled on his chest and slid up to his neck. He felt a relief that had no basis in reality and was untinged with the memory of what had happened to the original owner of the tags…

The Trucker, meanwhile, was balls-deep in the Trooper, his huge rod reaming out the punk’s colon. The cop’s sphincter had finally given in and relaxed; the young man was accepting the dick.

And that was so disappointing.

“Yer lettin’ me down, cunt,” he snarled. Gripping the cop’s jaw with excruciating force, he held the Trooper’s face still and spitting into it. “Ya can’t even get fucked right, can ya, you worthless psycho faggot? Your pansy ass won’t even grab my tool anymore—guess you took so many cocks up yer ass you wore it out, huh? What’d ya do, homo, man the gloryhole at the barracks? Gotta get ya tight again, dude.”

Despite his arrogance, his certainty of his own importance, the Trooper whimpered slightly at these words. He knew how the Trucker was gonna get him tight.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that his life flashed before his eyes—what flashed before them were visions of his own snuffs. There had only been a couple—well, three, if you count that teen who fled into the woods; he shot the punk in the line of duty and only fucked his corpse afterward.

The other two, also young teens, had been more deliberate. He’d found them just out walking around, picking them up on a pretense so he could cuff them and throw them into the back of his car. A quick trip out into the desert, a quick tussle with a helpless kid, “two pumps, a tickle and a squirt”, as they say.

Then he would strangle them slowly. Even though he’d just cum, his dick would get hard again during the snuff. As the kid died, the Trooper would shoot all over him. The body would get shoved into a dry run in the desert; within days there’d be nothing left.

And now it was gonna happen to him. And the deathpig stirred within and started to respond. Even in his fear, the grim promise rumbling deep in the Trucker’s bass voice sent an electric thrill to the base of his cock. As his large shaft stiffened and began to stand erect, the Trooper felt betrayed by his own body.

But he still couldn’t be found like this. Whatever his dick wanted, he couldn’t be humiliated like this—even if he had to humiliate himself now. He faced the Trucker directly, tears filling his bright blue eyes. “Please, man, don’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ll do anything ya want, man just don’t kill me. Ya wanna shit on me? Ya wanna piss in my mouth? I’ll do it all, dude, I’ll do anything you want, please don’t kill me, man, I won’t tell anyone, I swear, dude, fuck, please—“

The youth broke off, sobbing as the older man glared coldly down at him. Sneering slightly, he spit into the cop’s face again, then rose up on his knees, his rod still plugging the Trooper’s rectum. He looked around languidly, taking his time, knowing that escape was impossible. A disturbingly malicious grin formed on his face as he spotted the black webbed duty belt on the nightstand.

The Trooper’s cock was only half-erect when he opened his tear-rimmed eyes. He saw the grin and knew what the Trucker was looking at. He was still soft enough to lose control and have it show.

He pissed on himself. Not a lot, but a couple of golden splashes across his belly that ran off in rivulets to soak into the sheets, already moist with sweat and semen.

The Trucker threw his head back and laughed. Still chuckling, he leaned forward and grabbed the belt. It was thick, about an inch and a half. He knew from experience that the thinner the garrote, the easier it is to strangle someone.

This was gonna be slow. The cop was gonna take a long, long time to die. And best of all—the motherfucker knew it. He understood. To the Trucker, that mattered. He wasn’t just raping the Trooper’s ass, he was raping his mind at the same time.

He held the duty belt in front of the punk’s dazed face. “Ya see this? Wanna see what it feels like around your neck? I sure the fuck do, meat. I bet it’s gonna feel fuckin’ great—for me. For you, it’s gonna hurt like holy fucking hell. And your pain it gonna feel so motherfuckin’ good on my cock. And guess what? If ya make me cum before ya die, I might let ya live. So work my cock, you goddam homo cuntmeat, work it like your life depends on it—cause, trust me, it does.”

The muscled blond cop, confronted with the belt held in front of his face by the Trucker’s muscled arms, regressed into his mind, trying to escape the obvious implications. It required an almost deliberate shutdown of consciousness—a very bad idea. After all, his nervous system was still working perfectly—and with nothing else to focus on, physical sensation became everything.

And everything quickly became nightmarish.

Slowly, almost tenderly, the Trucker leaned forward and draped the belt lightly on the Trooper’s throat. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, the hot young cop turned his head to the left and gulped. He tensed momentarily in fear—not long, but long enough for the older man to feel a certain velvety constriction around his pumping shaft. He grinned again. This one was gonna be good. The meat was both aware and responsive.

“Yeah, pig, you’re gonna love this, ain’t ya?” he whispered. “Fuckin’ homo cop, you liked banging and wastin’ helpless kids and now you’re gonna get to find out what they went through. How ya like that shit, ya sick fuck? Huh? Goddam, lookit yer dick—gettin’ hard already. Can’t wait to see how horny ya get when we really start rockin’ and rollin’, bitch—let’s find out!”

Moving slowly and sensually, the Trucker wrapped the belt around the Trooper’s throat, at one point gripping the buzz-cut cop’s head tightly in his big paw so he could slide the belt under his neck. Suddenly, the blond youth could no longer ignore what was happening to him.

The sensation of webbed nylon looping around his throat was terrifying and he tensed up. But tensing suddenly made the terrible reaming pain in his ass intensify as his torn sphincter tightened around the Trucker’s dick. His huge blue eyes, circled with dark rings of shock, opened wide as he gasped and inhaled jerkily.

The Trucker’s grinning face was inches from his; the Trooper could feel the panting breath of the older man plowing his ass. Sweat tricked down the alpha’s cheeks, slipping under the black goatee and snagging on the scruff of five o’clock shadow darkening the killer’s hard face. He was close enough that the dogtags weren’t dangling; they’d settled on the cop’s broad chest and bounced a jingling accompaniment to each excruciating thrust.

He’d gotten the belt completely around the Trooper’s neck, letting it lie loosely as he rose back up on his knees. His cock started sliding out of the youth’s traumatized fuckhole. He stopped his withdrawal at the last moment, leaving just his swollen purple head inside the blond’s quivering sphincter. The Trooper was shuddering and gasping, emitting a low whining sound with each breath.

In some recess of his mind, the perverted young cop knew that he needed to keep control, that this psycho was feeding off his reactions. He fought violently against himself, realizing that the more obvious it was that this dude was causing him pain, the more pain the dude would cause.

But he couldn’t. That was the real nightmare. He knew what it would take to mitigate the pain but he couldn’t control himself to get there. It hurt too fucking much.

The Trucker only got harder as he watched the struggle play out in front of his face. “Boy,” he chuckled, “this ain’t nothin’. In five minutes you’re gonna think this pain is a kiss from momma. In fifteen minutes you ain’t gonna remember this pain. And in half an hour, you ain’t gonna remember your momma.”

The older man loomed over the bound youth, a wild grin twisting his chiseled face. A gleeful light of lust danced in his eyes, heating the cold blue irises until they glittered in a way that terrified the helpless young psychopath. The Trooper hadn’t known that the same gleam of insanity had helped demoralize his own victims—but now that he was on the receiving end, the impact was like a direct punch to the face.

Reason—at least such reason as the perverted lawman possessed—wouldn’t help here. He’d already known he couldn’t break free of the case-hardened steel clamped painfully around his wrists. Now it was horribly obvious that he couldn’t talk his way out of the situation as well. Nothing, not even begging, was going to help. He was utterly within the Trucker’s mercy.

And he was sure the sadistic bastard had no mercy.

He was right.

The dogtags struck his chin as the older man drew closer. The Trooper didn’t look away; his eyes were drawn to those of his rapist’s as if he was being hypnotized by a snake. He was aware of movement, feeling the Trucker’s hard, rough hands sliding down his body, smearing his sweat over his smooth flesh like an oil rubdown.

The muscular blond punk shuddered in erotic terror as the alpha fondled his thick pecs, callused palms scraping over the Trooper’s painfully stiff and sensitive nipples. Despite himself, the helpless rogue cop moaned, softly and breathily. The pressure of the killer’s hands slipped down to his flat belly; the bound youth could trace the downward movement growing closer and closer to his throbbing dick.

The Trucker noticed the Trooper’s cock, straining and painfully erect. He slowly ran his hands down to the meat’s groin, curling his fingers in the golden nest of curly hair. As he had earlier, the older man yanked the pubes—but this time the bitch was awake. The boy groaned and writhed on the sheets, sliding on a film of body fluids. His shaft twitched and began oozing.

“Yeah, I thought so, cocksucker,” sneered the Trucker. “Ya wanna get hurt, dontcha, cunt? You’re into the pain, huh, you worthless fuckin’ pig? Yeah? Ya like it?” He leaned forward and slapped the Trooper, hard. The younger man gasped at the fresh pain in his already battered and bruised face; with his eyes closed, he hadn’t seen the blow coming.

The Trooper’s expression of hurt and disappointment triggered something deep within the Trucker. All he’d done was keep his cock plugged in the meat’s ass while groping the fucker’s body—and the piece of shit thought he was gettin’ romanced!

“What, motherfucker, ya thought I was fallin’ in love with you, you perverted fuckin’ faggot? Thought you could worm your way out like that? Holy shit, dude, you ain’t even got me drippin’ again yet. You’re boring me. Time to make you into meat.”

He hunched over the blond boy yet again, abruptly this time, his dogtags striking the fuckmeat right in the face, make the Trooper grunt and flinch. Slowly and deliberately, the Trucker’s hands crept toward the loose ends of the duty belt which was still wound around the cop’s throat.

The Trooper had indeed surrendered to a fantasy similar to the one the Trucker had imagined; it was based on a combination of physical lust and mortal terror, as if he knew his last chance for survival depended on establishing an emotional contact with his killer—a contact possible only in his fear-borne delusion.

Now cold hard realty was approaching with a horrifying inevitability. Those hands, that sensation of rough nylon around his throat… A slow, agonizing death was coming and the suffering was gonna be unimaginable and the humiliation and the– And the—

And why the fuck was dick still hard and pulsating?

The Trucker knew why. He’d lowered himself gradually onto the meat’s hard body, feeling the young man squirm under him. The cop’s cock felt like a hot rod of iron laid flat against his belly; even through his fur, he could feel the throbbing heat of the swollen shaft of flesh lying along his abdomen.

The meat liked it. He could scream and struggle and curse as much as he liked, but deep in his sick little pig soul, the thought of his own rape and strangulation got him horny as fuck.

Nothing left to wait for, then, really. The Trucker wrapped the ends of the belt around his hands and began to pull. He didn’t put a lot of effort into it at first, just enough to get the homo deathpig started.

The Trooper reacted instantly. The Trucker wasn’t actually choking him yet; with some effort, he could still breathe. But the collision of his greatest fear and his greatest desire tripped a panic response. Squealing shrilly, the muscled stud began to twist, flailing his legs against the alpha’s heaving, pumping flanks. His struggle provided a staccato background rhythm of slapping, firm smooth flesh against flesh.

The Trucker snarled, the high-pitched keening of his victim irritating him. “Jesus,” he hissed, “if you’re gonna squeal like a dying pig, you’re gonna be a dying pig.” His biceps bulged as he applied torque to the belt, watching the webbing compress as it tightened around the Trooper’s throat.

The hard-bodied cop opened his mouth widely, his face frozen in horror as he tried vainly to gulp for air. His body went rigid instinctively, clenching his rectum around the sadistic older man’s pulsating shaft.

Grinning, he spit into the Trooper’s swelling, darkening face. The younger man’s rigidity was starting to pass; his firm, limber legs began to beat at the Trucker’s thighs while his twisting arms made the cuffs clank against the headboard loud enough to drown out the killer’s grunting and the thick gagging sounds scraping out of the fucktoy’s blocked windpipe.

The rogue cop felt an intolerable pressure building in his head, a hot dark pounding pressure that filled his consciousness—no, not quite. There was other pain, more pain. His chest, that wasn’t pressure. It was more like a vacuum generated in his lungs; it felt like his chest was gonna explode. And the horrible plunging and reaming in his ass—the pain was merging, flowing into a tsunami of agony threatening to drag him under.

As great black blooms burst in his field of vision, the young man’s fading vision focused on his killer’s chest, fur matted with sweat, tensing and straining with the effort of choking his life out. The Trooper’s ears filled with a loud buzzing and suddenly he fell back into dark pit, a pit lined with pain…

Seeing that his prey had lost consciousness, the Trucker loosened the belt slightly. Not a lot, of course; just enough to let the limp hard-bodied punk gasp involuntarily for air, his body shuddering in effort on the alpha’s tool.

Grinning and pumping, the alpha observed the meat’s face starting to resume normal proportions and coloration. The breathing became less ragged and the tight firm body under his slowed in its struggles. As the punk’s eyelids began fluttering with returning awareness, the Trucker spit in his victim’s face almost casually before he started slapping it.

“C’mon, you worthless fuck, you can take more than that. I ain’t even gotten started pounding yer fuckhole cunt—ya gotta keep up with me, dude.”

The Trooper gave a faint gurgling sound; he was awake now. His tender, abused colon was still getting mercilessly plowed but he could breathe—and understand. He heard the Trucker.

“Man, I told ya I’d let ya live if you got me off before I whacked ya. Had no idea you were such a fucking weak-ass pansy homo. You keep tryin’ to check out while I’m ballin’ ya, I’m gonna get pissed and make sure it hurts, bitch,” the Trucker barked in anger. “So how about a little incentive, huh? Tell ya what, ya fuckin’ sick sack a’ shit, if you die before I’m done with ya, I’m gonna leave your body spread on the bed with your nightstick rammed up your ass like a fuckin’ popsicle stick, ya feelin’ me, fag? Get what I’m sayin? All yer motherfuckin’ cop buddies are gonna that you got used real good before you were put down.”

The Trucker tensed up on the ends of the belt, pulling it taut but not flush. “Good, meat,” he hissed, his eyes glittering with rage and lust, “beg me for your life. You’ve killed, aintcha? I know. You’ve snuffed a bitch. Beg for your life, cunt, beg like your boys begged you. Lemme hear their words outta your mouth, motherfucker.”

The Trooper’s eyes welled with tears as he heard the words, but at the same time, the older man increased the speed and depths of his thrusts. As his cock sank deeper into the blond cop’s ass, the helpless stud cried aloud before dropping into a subdued blubbering. “Goddam worthless faggot, you really are fuckin’ useless, aintcha, cocksucker?” snarled the furious alpha. “If your life ain’t worth beggin’ for, I guess it ain’t worth shit, huh?” He yanked the belt as hard as he could, clamping his victim’s windpipe shut.

Again, the reaction was immediate. The cop’s low wailing ceased instantly, replaced with a thick moist gagging noise. The muscled punk bent and twisted like a bull, tying to buck the Trucker off. The Trooper still had enough strength to bend his back up off the bed, even with the older man lying on top of him.

It was a bad idea. He couldn’t remain in that contorted position for long; he collapsed back onto the bed in a few seconds. The drop was enough to cause the killer to lose his balance, just for a moment, but it was enough to loosen the belt. Again, not a good thing. At the same time as the constriction around his throat eased, the weight of the Trucker on his chest made him exhale, not inhale. What little reserve of oxygen had remained in his lungs was now expelled.

Before he had a chance to gasp in another breath, the alpha regained control and cinched down the belt again. “Smooth move, you stupid motherfucker,” sneered the Trucker, “really fucked up, dintcha? And ya didn’t even knock my cock outta yer ass!” The older man threw his dark head back and laughed aloud.

He’d cut off the meat’s air, but hadn’t pulled it tight—really tight. Looking down at the writhing youth under him, the Trucker watched the meat’s handsome face slowly swell and darken. He knew the pressure was going to continue to build inside his victim, inescapable pain and pressure—and he knew the faggot cunt knew it too.

The boy’s panic was obvious in his protruding eyes; he seemed oblivious to the way his fuckhole was stroking his killer’s cock, but his firm smooth thighs frantically slapping against those of the older man were a sign of his desperation. Despite the flailing of his legs, though, the white tube socks continued to cling tightly to his muscled calves.

The Trooper actually could feel his assailant’s engorged shaft plugging his colon—in fact, every movement he made caused unspeakable agony in his ass as the huge rod, rigid as iron, tore at his rectal lining. But his chest was exploding and his skull was imploding as screaming darkness closed in. The blond lawman realized that parts of his brain were starting to die; the pain of the rape was, had to be, utterly insignificant, crowded out by the terror and agony of death.

Sliding into crisis mode, the cop’s lithe, developed body shuddered, his legs wrapping tightly around his killer’s broad, heaving back. At the same time, the alpha rested his entire weight on top of the meat so he could wrap the belt around his hand one more time, tightening it even further. Both hard-bodied men were now quivering in a warm, moist embrace, fur grinding over smooth flesh on a film of sweat being wrung out of the dying punk.

The room echoed with the sounds of rape and snuff. Loudest of all was the clanging of the meat’s handcuffs on the headboard as his arms jerked frantically. The violent arching of his back was responsible for the next sound—the Trucker’s dogtags jangling as he held onto his convulsing fucktoy. The slapping of slick flesh was almost inaudible under the loud grunting coming from both—the alpha’s in effort and the meat’s involuntarily as froth oozed from his mouth.

The Trucker’s face was just inches away from that of his fucktoy. He was able to observe the physical effects of slow, traumatic strangulation at close range. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the heady scent of sex and death, pheromones and testosterone and mansweat. Beneath him, the young blond was almost unrecognizable.

Swelling and darkening again, the punk’s face became grotesque as his eyes bulged horribly, reddening with petechial hemorrhages. The fuckmeat’s tongue, thick and purple like the head of a dick, emerged from his blue lips, lube by the foam bubbling out of his blocked windpipe.

When the Trooper went under, his eyes rolled back until nothing but blood-shot whites showed under his long fluttering lashes. The Trucker immediately slackened the belt; the meat gasped thickly in an involuntary scramble for air. The older dude grinned and remained still; for the moment, he didn’t need to do more.

The psycho lawman jerked and inhaled arrhythmically. As he struggled involuntarily to pump enough oxygen through his system to prevent irreversible brain trauma, his colon still maintained a tight, velvety grip on the alpha’s sensitive shaft. Each gag, every cough vibrated through the Trooper’s firm, muscled body. At some point, each traumatic retching gasp rippled through the meat’s rectum and stroked his rapist’s tool.

“Ya back yet, cunt?” he hissed. “Fuckin’-A, you useless pervert, you still ain’t got me off yet!”

The Trooper clawed his way back up a razor-lined shaft into reality, the returning of awareness a long painful process. His vision was cloudy, his hearing intermittent. His sense of touch—his sense of sense, so to speak—that worked. Oh fuck, it still worked…

He hadn’t know how oxygen deprivation increased sensitivity as nerve ends began to die. His own victims—the agony they must have experienced as they died…

Despite the crushing pain of getting throttled until he lost consciousness, despite the deep slashing pain in his ass, the understanding of the horror he’d inflicted on those kids he’d wasted had a physical impact.

He got hard.

The Trucker noticed—and the Trooper noticed he noticed. It was a brutal slap of reality; he remembered what was happening. He went limp.

The Trucker was furious.

“What the fuck ya need, cumsucker—pain? That it? You a pain pig? Fuck yeah, dude, didn’t know ya had it in ya! You like to get hurt, huh? Saddle up, you motherfuckin’ faggot, I’ll hurt ya so fuckin’ bad you’ll cum!” he snarled in rage, spit flying from his lips. The sadistic alpha gave the belt one last twist around the frantic punk’s neck, cinching it agonizingly before transferring both ends to his left hand. He wrapped them around his palm so he could grip them in one hand without slackening the wide ligature sunk painfully into the fucker’s taut throat.

The muscled killer’s right arm was free. He made use of it immediately, piledriving his rock-hard fist into the meat’s firm belly. The pain-wracked youth tried instinctively to curl into a fetal position, but the weight of his well-built rapist kept him pinned to the bed. He could only writhe and shudder on the damp sheets as tears oozed from his bulging eyes.

“Goddam, fuckmeat, that did ya some good—I felt that all the way down my dick. That’s what ya like, ya fuckin’ psycho homo pervert, huh? You just need a good beatdown. Here ya go, cunt!” the Trucker growled, repeating the blow. “Yeah, that’s it, bitch, lookit your hard dick slappin’ against me—worthless faggot pain pig!” Another gutpunch, and another. Each time the killer grunted as the blunt force reverberated through his victim’s traumatized body and flowed down his rectum, tightening his asshole.

The Trooper was almost beyond rational thought. A vast fog enveloped his mind, a screaming, pounding silence deafened him—but it was the pain that overshadowed all. His stomach was strong and firm, the smooth skin rippled with muscles, but he’d already suffered so much that even his hard, developed torso was unable to withstand the attack.

The fog was turning into a hot black wave. Something else he hadn’t known—he’d always thought being strangled would be a cold death but it wasn’t. His victims—that first one in the back of the cop car—he’d sweated like a hog as the Trooper choked him. At the time, he thought the kid was on crack.

The hot darkness was penetrated by lightning—each time he was punched, the older man’s fist sank deep into his guts, just above the point where the man’s cock was impaling his innards. Everything—oh fuck, everything—his chest, his ass, his head, it all hurt. Fiery numbness froze his bound hands; his arms twitched convulsively, making the cuffs clang rhythmically against the headboard. He couldn’t hear it.

As his swollen, congested face darkened, white froth bubbled past his protruding tongue. It slid across his snot-smeared face, now grotesquely twisted. He wasn’t aware of the details, though; his head was one source of pain among many. His ass, oh fuck, his ass, his dick…

His dick. As black cacophony took him under, he could still sense his rod, erect and straining to an unbearable extent. He was dying and he was so hard it hurt; it wasn’t fair…but those boys he’d wasted, they’d gone hard as they died…now it was happening to him…hot dark screaming pain…no, wait…

The Trucker almost missed the signal. The meat’s cock was slapping against his furry belly as the motherfucker’s lights went out; it was only when precum began to splatter across his chest that he realized he’d taken the cop closer to death than he wanted. He unwound the belt from his left hand right away. The blond stud writhed and convulsed beneath him, his fuckhole stroking the alpha’s huge engorged shaft.

“C’mon back, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” the Trucker whispered to the youth as he coughed and gagged. Somewhere along the line—the Trucker didn’t notice exactly when and didn’t care—the fuckmeat regained consciousness. The rogue cop’s slow and painful climb back to reality was accompanied by a background of abuse.

“Wake the fuck up, you punk-ass cocksucker. C’mon, bitch, milk my fuckin’ shaft. I’m done fuckin’ around with ya. Remember when I told ya I’d let ya live if you managed to get me off? I lied, faggot. Only reason you’re still alive is cause I haven’t cum yet.”

By now the Trooper was fully awake; at least, as awake as he’d ever be again. After all, he’d been without oxygen for extended periods twice now. Things were fuzzy around the edges…

No. The pain, that was as sharp as ever.

“Ok, you disgusting pervert, I’m gonna wipe your stain off this planet. Ya feel me, motherfucker? This time it’s gonna be for real. See, I’m gonna make you hurt so bad you’ll make me blow my load just so I’ll end your pain. You thought you were man enough to take me down, you fuckin’ queerboy? I bet every real man in the barracks knew you were a homo cocksucker!”

He bent down over the dazed youth, dropping his dogtags into his smeared red face. The Trucker’s eyes glinted with an icy, malevolent glee as he whispered into the blond punk’s ear, “and if they don’t know it now, I’ll make sure they find out. I’m gonna leave your reamed-out corpse right here, bound to this cum-soaked bed with your own cuffs. They’re gonna know you got fucked in the ass, cause I’m gonna leave yer nightstick in it, shoved up to the hilt. Bet that turns ya on, you disgusting pig, huh”

The Trooper cringed and blubbered, coughing up blood-streaked phlegm from his damaged windpipe. He was alive and aware—and wishing he wasn’t. The pain was still there.

What little of him was left was focused on breathing; an excruciating experience on its own. Each desperate gasp for air was like inhaling razor blades. The hammering in his skull was unbearable; the knowledge that he was hearing the desperate beat of his pulse as his heart struggled in vain to pump oxygen to his brain only terrified him even more—and made his heart speed up.

His chest felt like it was imploding; a vacuum of agonizing force was centered there. As the Trooper’s eyes became less dim (and as they sank back into their orbits, his vision became less distorted), he could see the older man’s face leering down at him in contemptuous lust. Sweat trickled down the Trucker’s cheek, the beads disappearing into the scruff darkening the killer’s firm jawline.

The blond youth gagged and coughed repeatedly. If his need for air hadn’t been so desperate—and his airway so traumatized—he would have been screaming. The grotesque impaling sensation in his colon had never dimmed; it was just that now the agony of actual death was fading. There was nothing else to compete with the feeling of the alpha’s swollen tool rammed deep into his guts, tearing him open inside.

The Trooper shook his head frantically but was still incapable of articulate speech. Grunts and gurgles bubbled out of his throat in a blood-streaked foam. His barely-functioning mind was in chaos; his thoughts were incompatible with each other.

He wanted to end the pain. He wanted to die; that was the only way to end it.

He wanted to obey. He wanted to work his ass muscles to make his top cum; he just didn’t know how.

He wanted to kill this motherfucker. He wanted to make him suffer this pain; the serial killer in him was still alive.

He wanted to shoot his load. He wanted to give up his life seed as he slipped into death; it was what he’d wanted all along.

Glaring down into his victim’s face, the Trucker already knew what was running through what was left of his mind. He was experienced; they always went through something like this as they trembled on the edge of their blackest desire. Fuckin’ deathpigs—not even grateful when you give ‘em what they want.

And although the Trooper didn’t know it yet, three outta four ain’t bad.

“One.”

The muscled top started the countdown. The bound lawman knew what it meant.

“Two.”

The cop tried to ignore the words. He clenched his eyes closed again, retreating into himself the same way he’d done at the start. Problem was, this time he already knew what his assailant was capable of.

“Three.”

In a panic, he began flexing his rectum, trying to constrict his sphincter. There had to be a way out—if he could just get more time…

“Four.”

It wasn’t enough for the fucker. There had to be more he could do—but it hurt, oh god, his ass hurt so fuckin’ bad, this guy was tearing him open, each movement was ripping his tender flesh deep inside…

“Five. Time to die, faggot.”

Some deep, hidden part of the Trooper’s psyche heard the words and responded by overriding every reflex of pain or fear that would prevent an erection. As the webbed nylon belt constricted around his throat again, the bound muscular cop felt his cock rise up, painfully rigid and oozing an almost steady stream of precum.

All his cocky arrogance had been wrung out of him, oozing out with his sweat and pain. He his brain was full of an icy fog that paralyzed his will; he was terrified of his hard-on—he knew it was only gonna become more agonizing as the spark of life was throttled out of him—but he was past the point of active resistance.

The Trucker leaned back, stretching his arm out. Feeling around behind himself, the alpha retrieved the nightstick. He held it front of the Trooper, his other hand holding the belt taut but not tight around the meat’s neck. He laid the baton down next to the blond’s head; if the cunt turned to the right, he’d see it. And the killer could tell by his victim’s expression that the punk hadn’t forgotten where the Trucker was gonna leave it.

The muscular stud jerked on the belt pulling the Trooper roughly up off the bed. Inhaling deeply, he hocked a huge wad of phlegm onto the stunned cop’s face, wiping it over the youth’s swollen, tear-slicked cheeks with his strong, rough paw.

The young man grimaced blearily. The Trucker dropped him back onto the bed and took the ends of the belt in both hands. His huge rod, still plugging the fucktoy’s ass, pulsed warmly and wetly in anticipation. He paused—cruelly, just to let the tension build.

The Trooper was undergoing an agonizing epiphany, an approach to understanding the nightmarish erotic pain to which he’d subjected two innocent teenage boys. He was sinking into a dull haze, hypnotized by the dancing flashes of light reflecting off the dogtags dangling from the Trucker’s thick neck…

For a moment, there was no sound in the room but that of two well-built men panting with lustful exertion. As the funk of sweat, testosterone and old cum intensified, the Trucker broke the silence with a whisper. “Third time’s the charm, fuckin’ homo cunt.”

He abruptly yanked his arms, jerking the belt tight around his meat’s throat. The fucker leaped like a fish on a line, snapped out of his daze by the crushing pain in his esophagus and the now-familiar crushing agony in his chest and his head. “Fuck yeah, bitch,” the Trucker hissed through gritted teeth, “now you’re working my cock. That’s it, fight it, faggot. C’mon, kick and twitch on my dick, motherfucker!”

The alpha lowered his head until his face was inches from the Trooper. His expression twisted into sneering sexual contempt as he watched the blond youth’s face darken through shades of red and violet. The serial killer wanna-be, helpless and struggling, began oozing drool from the side of his mouth as his tongue protruded, as purple and swollen as the head of his cock, bobbing in the air—and also oozing.

Grinning hatefully, the scruffy top pulled hard on the belt, causing his rock-hard biceps to bulge. The thick black nylon webbing circling the rogue cop’s neck sank in deeply. The punk’s eyes opened wide and he began flailing and coughing in a frantic and futile attempt to inhale; he didn’t manage to do more than spit up wads of white foam.

“Does it hurt yet, cunt?” leered the older man, slightly panting his words out as he kept the pressure on his meat’s windpipe. “Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it? You know, you worthless piece of shit, you know how good it feels. You know how fuckin’ hot it is to waste someone while you’re banging ‘em, yeah? Now you get ta feel what it’s like to be the fuckpig—told ya it was gonna be yer lucky motherfuckin’ day, didn’t I, huh?”

The Trooper knew. Even in the involuntary convulsions of imminent death he hadn’t forgotten the feeling of raping and snuffing those soft smooth boys—and this was what they’d endured, the little cumsacks…

But he’d been right about his dick. It hurt—oh fuck, how it hurt, so hard and engorged it felt like it was gonna split… But he couldn’t help it. Throughout the entire ordeal, the Trucker had never pulled out of the young man’s ass—and now he was back to reaming it like a plumber’s snake. Every thrust was like a direct punch to his prostate. Every thrust caused another agonizing, uncontrollable throb in his swollen shaft.

As the Trucker maintained the tightness of the belt by brute strength, the hard-bodied youth writhed beneath him, his smooth flesh sliding around on yet another film of death-sweat slowly being squeezed out of him. His firm, muscular legs wrapped around his killer’s waist with an involuntary vice-like grip, his white tube socks somehow still clinging to his thick calves as his feet kicked desperately at the dominant alpha’s pumping ass.

The Trooper’s arms jerked arrhythmically, clanging the handcuffs against the headboard, the jagged tempo increasing as his convulsion became more acute. His entire intestinal tract spasmed violently in organ failure; the older man grunted in pleasure as the homo punk’s colon massaged his thick rod. The meat’s sphincter tightened around the root of his dick like a cockring.

“Fuckin’ die, you faggot pervert, die on my dick!” the Trucker growled as he sped up his thrusts, driving his enormous shaft deep into the youth’s twitching guts. The young handsome blond was almost unrecognizable now, his face horrifyingly black and distorted—but he wasn’t dead yet.

Some parts of his brain were shutting down but as dark fireworks burst silently in front of his swollen, blood-shot eyes, he was still aware enough to realize that oxygen deprivation was again inducing hypersensitivity in his traumatized anus. That was why it felt like this psycho stud’s massive tool had a barbed head that was slashing at his rectum…

But knowing the cause didn’t lessen the agony.

As death closed in, the Trooper felt waves of nightmarish knife-like pain roll across his muscular form. He knew he was convulsing, his thick, strong limbs shuddering. His legs, clamped like scissors around the alpha’s heaving, sweaty flanks, kicked futilely in the air while his quivering arms beat an accompaniment of clanking metal to his final moments.

He’d been right—the heat had seeped out of him with his pheromone-soaked sweat. Death was dark and cold, promising and icy release from the torture he was enduring, but the white-hot burning sensation in his cock was getting more intense with each passing second.

And the seconds themselves seemed to slow down. Over the pounding of his pulse, the frenetic tempo of his heart trying to push oxygen that wasn’t there, the young cop heard his killer speak. The words were low and long, like a slowed-down film.

“Ya fuckin’ useless pig—thought you were gonna fuck me? Looks like you were wrong—dead wrong, cunt. And now yer buddies are gonna find ya with cum up your ass, rammed home with your own nightstick. I’ll make sure to leave you with your legs spread wide so they can see what a slut you were, faggot.”

The Trooper was almost gone; the words worked their way through his dying brain like bubble through molasses. He could still grasp their import but was incapable of acknowledging it with anything more than dull despair. The slashing agony in his fuckhole seared its way up the root of his dick, a solid spike of horribly erotic pain beyond his experience.

Deep within the pig part of his mind, the part that was wallowing in the black mud of helpless rape and murder, he could feel that part of his oozing, straining hard-on was inspired by his realization of what his victims had suffered. The sick bastard, getting snuffed himself, was hard at the full understanding of the torture he’d inflicted on his own victims.

Of course, he still hadn’t gone all the way. He hadn’t made the full journey into the dark.

With a loud grunt, the Trucker put all his muscle into tightening the belt, pulling so hard the tendons stood out on his neck. The wide black webbing embedded itself into the Trooper’s neck. A loud cracking, crunching sound penetrated the room as the blond cop went rigid.

The pain from his crushed esophagus momentarily overrode the pleasure/pain of the rape. The fireworks were inside his head now, each explosion wiping out functional parts of his nervous system. Just before his vision faded, it circled in on the sneering face of the Trucker, his hard, handsome features, covered with black stubble and facial hair, twisted in contempt as he spit on his victim one last time.

Then the perverted killer cop fell into a deep cold howling pit, his last connection to life the raging agony in his ass and cock. He never felt the blows the Trucker rained brutally on his face, making his body convulse more violently and work the shaft on which it was impaled even more intensely. He never heard the smacking sound of fist on flesh, the guttural grunting of the alpha as he edged closer to orgasm, the crunch of his nose as his assailant flattened it…

Then the tension snapped. The Trucker’s huge, throbbing cock erupted, ejecting a massive wad of hot cum into the fuckmeat’s shredded colon. Trembling on the edge of hell, the cop felt his ass flooded with molten steel, the sensation of boiling liquid seeming to eat its way through his bowels.

His last living act, involuntary and almost unconscious, was the ejaculation of a thick, ropy jet of semen. He died in nightmarish agony, his dick shooting so hard it felt like it was being flayed inside out, his awareness flickering out in his irreparably damaged brain as the best part of him was pumped out of his cock in white, creamy geysers.

The Trooper’s streams of spunk splashed across the Trucker’s furry torso, smearing with the older man’s sweat to mat the hair on his chest. As the dying punk jerked wildly in his death throes, more sperm spattered warmly and wetly on the underside of the alpha’s strong jaw, almost like a deliberate blast from a water gun. The Trooper continued to writhe and expel a phenomenal amount of cum for another forty-five seconds, hosing himself, his killer, and the bed in general with vast spurts of DNA.

The Trucker grunted and panted, his eyes closed tight, biting his lower lip in the intensity of his own rage-filled orgasm. Too hate-filled to speak, he forced his spewing shaft as far up the corpse’s fuckhole as he could, pumping his hot seed deep into the dead cop’s guts. Groaning loudly, he instinctively contracted his arms, pulling the twitching body up off the soiled sheets.

As he felt his balls empty violently, the Trucker stared into the Trooper’s grotesquely blackened face. The lolling head drooped, the bulging, hemorrhaged eyes rolling back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites were visible. The rogue cop was now nothing but a quivering meat puppet milking the cum out of the stronger man.

Still shuddering in intense ejaculation, the older top let the young blond’s corpse drop back onto the wet sheets, his groin grinding into the dead youth’s asscheeks before he finally relented. Sighing deeply, he slowly and reluctantly let his still-pulsing cock slide out of the punk’s fuckhole. It slipped out on with a slimy, pearly lube of spunk, tinted pink with blood.

“If ya’d been any good, I’da taught ya some tricks,” he muttered, “but you’re just meat.” Reaching to the side, he grabbed the baton. True to his word, he inserted it into the Trooper’s slack asshole, steadily shoving it in more deeply. Any resistance he encountered he overcame with increased force, feeling flesh tear each time he applied more pressure.

By the time he was done, the inch-and-a-half diameter aluminum rod was sunk to the hilt in the blond cop’s ass. The Trucker propped his legs apart, placing a pillow under the corpse’s ass so that the baton was clearly visible from the door.

Still panting and sweating, the Trucker stepped into the bathroom, now utterly sauna-like from the hot shower that he’d left running. It didn’t take long to scrub the thick white crust of dried cum from his wiry chest fur and the finer dark hairs on his flat but rippled belly. Before he did, though, he wiped some of the lawman’s still-moist seed off his hard torso with a hand towel and set it aside.

After cleansing himself to his satisfaction, the Trucker dragged the teen’s corpse to the shower. He’d spent just over an hour dealing with the unwelcome but entertaining intruder; the cunt he’d left on the floor was starting to stiffen. There was just enough flexibility for him to drag the dead meat into the shower, aim the ass into the shower head and pull open the sphincter. After flushing the colon with hot water, he held the corpse upright, still pulling the ass open with his fingers. Despite the physical ordeal he’d been through, both sexual and combative, the teen’s corpse was no strain on his muscles. After allowing the anal cavity to drain, he yanked the rigid body out of the tub and placed it back on the floor.

Retrieving the plunger from behind the toilet, the Trucker wrapped the cum-soaked towel around the handle—then rammed the handle up the stiff’s ass. He made sure to grind it around inside the corpse, smearing the Trooper’s DNA inside the washed-out cavity.

He chuckled silently—at the very least, it would confuse the issue. And the cop’s own ass was pooling with blood leaking from the slashed and shredded rectal tissue. Yeah, there’d be a lot of questions about this one…

His jeans had been left in the bathroom; dark, warm and moist, they clung tightly to his thighs as he forced them on. His socks and boots were just outside the door. First, though, he slipped his t-shirt and leather vest back on, lighting a smoke from the pocket of his shirt.

Clenching the cigarette between his teeth, he sat on the bed next to the Trooper’s still-quivering body. Crossing his legs, he slid his socks and boots on, pausing between each to tap his ash into the dead cop’s drool-soaked face. When he was done, he extinguished his smoke on the dark, dry tongue with a loud sizzle.

The Trucker stepped back to take one last look. He needed to remember this scene; he’d almost died here. The face of the blond lawman was still black and swollen; the belt was too embedded in the neck to remove. The tousled wet sheets, slimy with cum and sweat, were rank with sex. The Trooper’s spread, shuddering legs obscenely thrust the nightstick forward with each convulsion, as if the dead youth was proudly displaying a new dildo.

The Trucker had an idea. He gathered up the Trooper’s uniform. The slacks, the shirt, the boots—he also made sure to get cuffs he’d been bound with. They were still clamped on the radiator, the key in the open cuff that had been around his wrist. After pocketing it, he even got down on hands and knees to retrieve the gun. Not that he’d kill anyone with the gun, of course. He wanted it for intimidation.

It was way too fast a way of death for him to actually employ.

Rolling the cop’s gear into a ball, the older man turned out the lights in the room and quickly slipped out the door in the dark. He strode quickly across the parking lot, his boots thumping on the pavement. Skirting the circle of light shed by the motel office, he slipped unnoticed across the street. The bar was long since closed; the only two vehicle left in the lot were his rig—and a state trooper’s car. Damn. The Trucker scrambled into his cab, shifted into gear, and eased out of the lot and up onto the highway.

He wasn’t done in this area, oh no. There was a least one cunt not too far away who deserved to be taught his value in the world—which was about the same as a used cumrag.

But right now, he needed to go. He needed to be out of the jurisdiction of the state cops, at least for a while.

On the highway, he headed north. He was over the state line in less than an hour; in less than twenty-four, he was on the hunt again.

Night was falling and the Trooper hadn’t caught up with the rig the ferret-like kid back at the truck stop had described so eloquently. He pounded his fist on the steering wheel in frustration; he was sure this guy would strike again soon, so he’d stopped at every truck stop on the highway that was within five miles of a gay bar. He’d searched them on his phone, getting accurate directions, making sure not to miss a single one—but nothing.

And that semi couldn’t accelerate out of the state faster than the Trooper’s cruiser. Even with all his stops, he should have caught up by now. No, the dude had pulled off somewhere—but where? Not any of the obvious truck stops. And the Trooper had run through every rest stop on the way, not stopping, and not seeing the truck he was looking for.

He took the last exit before the start line, whipping around on a desolate overpass in the middle of the desert. He’d missed something. He shifted into park and paused, his hopes rising suddenly as the headlights of an obviously large truck came around a curve in the distance behind him.

The Trooper wasn’t familiar enough with this corner of the state to remember what was down that road; he just knew that it was miles away. It was possible that this was the guy he wanted, but it wasn’t likely that he’d gotten that far off the highway, did what he wanted to do, and was on his return trip now. The timing was wrong.

And of course, it wasn’t the rig. Even from a distance, this one was visible because of its bright white paint job, the sleeper cab trimmed in cherry red. It flashed by him, turning north, heading out of state. The one he was looking for was darker, a distinct metallic blue. But still…

He thought for a moment before pulling out his phone and running a search. He’d had an idea that was worth checking out—and the search results backed that up.

As the last bit of blue sky faded to black on his right, the Trooper got back on the interstate, heading south to a couple of exits he hadn’t checked before.

Adam had had way too much to drink, but nobody was concerned about it—for a couple of reasons. The first was that it was far too frequent an occurrence for the strung-out little twink for it to attract much notice. The other was that there was no one to care.

The bar was a small, dimly lit building of corrugated steel in the center of a cracked asphalt slab. It was located at an exit on the interstate that gave access to a county road connecting small mining and industrial communities. Most of the towns had a single main employer—a mine, a refinery, a power plant—and contained no more than a few hundred residents, nearly all blue-collar workers. Each town had several bars, of course—but this building, out by the interstate, was the only gay bar.

The clientele was mostly local; in the small, closed-off world of small town gay life, everyone knew everyone—and everyone knew Adam.

And because everyone knew Adam, no one gave a shit how drunk he was.

Adam had first shown up at the bar three years earlier. At that time, the place had been known by the innocuous name of “The Men’s Club”. His attractive youthful looks had instantly made him popular and he retreated to the restroom in the company of others several times that first trip.

Two weeks later, he repeated his performance to equal acclaim. This time, however, his father caught him sneaking back in the house afterwards. Since Adam was sixteen years old at the time, all hell broke loose (literally, as far as the local preachers screamed).

The Men’s Club was instantly shuttered, a flurry of warrants, indictments and charges flew in a vicious legal whirlwind, and a deathly silence prevailed over the fate of half a dozen local citizens who were taken off to the state penitentiary.

In time, the bar managed to re-open under new ownership. Now it was just “Dan’s Bar”, and it was freely admitted that the name was a DBA and that there was no Dan. It took a while for the thundering from the pulpits and the fulminations from the electoral podiums to die down, but eventually business began to return to normal and the stigma of what had happened began to fade.

And then Adam started showing back up. At nineteen, his still had that lean, slim firm teen body that explained his physical appeal. His face was still smooth but his complexion was starting to show the effects of an excess of alcohol.

He followed the same pattern every night, showing up in the sluttiest outfit he could find, desperate to get laid. None of the locals would go near him. After a while, he’d start to get teary-eyed and go to the bar, slam down a twenty and get as many shots of cheap tequila he could, downing one after the other.

Then he’d drunkenly cruise the floor for any strangers; there was a tiny cheap motel across the road and sometimes—especially on weekends—there was some trade from the interstate. He was certainly attractive and still looked young. He could appeal to the guys who looked like they had money by emphasizing the victimhood of his molestation in that very bar.

In his own way he was right; he was a victim. He was a pariah to the locals; no one who knew him dared go anywhere near him. He knew it but wasn’t self-aware enough to know why, so he drank himself into a stupor and threw himself at every strange male who came in, wheedling money out of the rich ones and sex out of all of them.

As Adam looked up this night, the dude his bleary eyes slowly focused on mighta been rich, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Right away, Adam wanted him. Drunk as he was, his dick still managed to rise to attention at the sight of the well-built man leaning back in one of the corner booths against the far wall.

The dude was older; late thirties, perhaps. He wore a flat-brimmed trucker’s cap that made it hard to distinguish his hair, but below his gunmetal-blue eyes, a coarse, wiry scruff of black fur covered his cheeks, just barely longer than five o’clock shadow except where it darkened into a goatee around his mouth.

A white t-shirt stretched tautly over his wide chest. Over it he wore an unlined leather vest, very plain and simple. It dangled open to reveal the man’s large pectoral muscles with what looked like a pair of dogtags glinting in between on top of the t-shirt.

He was in the corner booth, behind the table, so Adam couldn’t get a good view of him below the waist—but then stud shifted and stretched out a long leg, knotted with muscle like the limb of a tree, tightly wrapped in torn, slightly stained denim, terminating in a worn and scarred brown leather pull-on work boot.

Adam felt himself drawn in; some kind of gravitational field of lust was pulling him to this dude.

Somehow, deep inside his sad, sordid little soul, he knew this guy would solve all his problems.

He never imagined how.

He might have been drunk, but Adam wasn’t completely wasted. He knew he had to remain presentable—and to that end, quickly ducked into the restroom to check his appearance in the mirror. The two dudes already in there certainly weren’t resting, but they split immediately when they saw who had walked in.

Adam ignored them; he was so used to the cold shoulder that it didn’t even register. He stood at the filthy sink and ran water over his hands, splashing a little on his face to help him focus before examining his appearance in the cracked and pitted mirror.

Beneath his tousled blond hair, deep hazel eyes stared back at him from the reflective surface. Surprisingly clear given the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, they were long-lashed and slightly almond-shaped. His nose was wide and the drinking had already caused some spreading and reddening, but in the dim light, his face still managed to project an air of innocence and naivety that was wholly disingenuous. There was nothing innocent or naïve about the little slut.

He grinned at his reflection. Fuck the other guys in the bar. He wasn’t looking for love, he was looking for sex, and he’d already set his sights for the dude he wanted to plow his hole tonight.

It was a warm night and Adam had dressed accordingly; he looked as if he was ready for action of some kind, at any rate. He wore a deep blue sleeveless basketball jersey; it clung to his slim but firm frame, the shiny polyester catching the light. Below, matching shorts ended well above mid-thigh, showing Adam’s long muscled legs to perfect advantage. His tight, smooth limbs were dusted with a fine golden down that glinted a fiery glow when the light struck it just right. His thick calves were encased in black Nike athletic socks, running down to black leather hightop sneakers with the same distinctive swoosh.

He grinned at himself in the mirror. He could still dress like he was sixteen and get away with it. He wouldn’t be able to for much longer before the booze caught up to him, but that thought never occurred to him.

Smirking at his youthful face in the blemished mirror, Adam shoved his hand down his shorts. Tightly gripping his dick, still firm and meaty at the memory of the hot stud in the booth, he adjusted it to the right, laying it against his bare thigh so the bulge would be obvious in the flashy shorts.

Finally satisfied with his finishing touches, Adam left the restroom on his quest to snag himself a good hard top.

He’d heard the warning about being careful what one asks for, but he’d never understood it. Tonight, he would.

The haze of smoke, the flash of strobes and the rattling bass of the music had turned the bar into a kaleidoscope of male flesh and lust. Adam could still make out the dude, deep in the shadows.

He was still in the booth, his steely blue eyes casting a coldly appraising glance over the men on display. There was something contemptuous in the stillness of his face that made a deep dark part of Adam’s soul throb. His beautiful body, wrapped in denim and leather—Adam felt himself gasp in imagined pleasure.

He approached the dude’s table. Reaching it, he stood silently, legs spread, hands on his hips. Despite his overwhelming desire to be brutally cornholed by this stud, he managed to strike an arrogant pose so as not to sell himself short.

“You’re a big dude,” he jeered, “everything about you big?” He’d cast his voice low and sultry but in his excitement, it had risen noticeably.

The older man glanced at him dismissively before silently turning his eyes back to the dance floor. Not a muscle in his face had moved but his eyes. Adam broke into a nervous sweat. He tried again.

This time the alpha male examined Adam more closely, his penetrating gaze sliding over the teen’s body as if he was sizing up a cut of meat. A corner of his mouth curled in what might have been a sneer, but between the alcohol and the chaotic atmosphere of the club, Adam was incapable of noticing that level of detail.

When he finally spoke, it was in a deep guttural bass that seemed to vibrate the deepest root of Adam’s shaft. “You lookin’ to get fucked?” he growled.

Suddenly, in the full spotlight of the stud’s attention, Adam was intimidated. He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry; when he swallowed, all he got was a faint click. He nodded dumbly. There was something in the muscular dude’s immobile face that let him know he didn’t need to speak. The message had gotten across.

The silence between them extended to an almost unbearable length before the older man spoke. “Yeah, I could plow your hole. You gotta place I can bang ya?”

Adam nodded swiftly, recovering his voice as best he could. “Y-yes, over in-in F-f-farmington; it’s ab-about t-t-twenty miles d-down—“

“Fuck that,” snapped the stud. “I got a room across the way. C’mon. And you better be a good fuck, boy, cause if you ain’t, I can damn sure make ya are one.”

Adam shuddered to his core; he was still too drunk to recognize the threat implicit in the statement. He was shuddering in anticipation.

He stepped aside to let the alpha stud out of the booth. The older man got up; his leather vest fell open, revealing the skin-tight t-shirt that highlighted every detail of his sculpted torso. As the man stood in front of him, Adam couldn’t help but notice how his jeans exposed the massive ridge extending outwards from the dude’s crotch.

Adam quailed momentarily; even in his alcoholic stupor, this was a case of biting off more than he could chew, so to speak. This guy was huge. This was gonna hurt, and if this guy used him the way he wanted to be used, it was gonna hurt a lot.

Then he glanced up at the muscled top towering over him and decided it didn’t matter. He wanted this man’s cock, no matter what it took.

Gulping nervously, he cleared his throat and spoke. This time he got the low, throaty tone he’d been aiming for. “Yeah, man, that’ll work. You can put it up my ass, big boy. Let’s see what you can do.”

This time there was no way he could miss the contemptuous smirk on the alpha’s face, but he disregarded it; he assumed it meant the dominant stud had accepted his challenge. And indeed he had, but not how Adam had hoped for.

The Trooper shifted his firm ass in the leather seat of his cruiser; he’d been sitting there for some time and didn’t want it to fall asleep. No telling how much longer he’d be sitting here; it was just past midnight and this place was open till two in the morning, if local ordinances didn’t allow it to stay open later.

Nonetheless, he was willing to spend the night here. This was the second exit he’d checked on his return trip and he instantly recognized the rig in the bar’s parking lot.

He’d realized back at the state line that he’d focused too exclusively on truck stops. A quick online search had shown him all the gay bars in this part of the state, and there weren’t too many. He’d hit pay dirt his on his second stop.

Now all he had to do was sit in the dark and wait for his mark to leave the bar. He’d parked at the back end of the lot, in a spot where he could see the bar entrance on one side of his field of view and the truck on the other. He’d manage to catch sight of his man at some point between the two…

As he settled back into his seat, he saw the door open and two figures come out. It was hard to discern details at this distance, but one was a kid in a shiny purple baller outfit and high black socks and shoes. The Trooper had actually noted him pulling into the lot a couple of hours ago in an ancient wheezy Mercedes.

The other was a tall, muscular man in jeans, a white t-shirt and a black vest, wearing a trucker’s cap…

The Trooper was instantly on the alert; it sure looked like the guy he’d seen before. Same massive, muscular body. There was more facial hair, but it had been several days. It had to be him—

But they didn’t cross to the cab of the truck; instead, they turned the other direction and soon vanished around the corner of the building.

The Trooper grunted in frustration. He was close, so close. He knew it. But he wasn’t about go into the bar and confront the dude in front of witnesses.

As the Trucker opened the door to the room, his nose was assailed by the mingled reek of bleach and cigarette smoke. He’d rented it earlier but hadn’t bothered to enter the room before; he knew what to expect anyway, more or less. It was slightly cleaner than some of the other shitholes he’d been in lately, but still well used and run down.

As he stepped to the side to jerk the faded brown drapes over the window, the punk in the b-ball jersey came in, letting the door close behind him. The Trucker crossed swiftly behind him to lock and bolt the door before turning to face the kid.

The old dented lampshades obscured much of the room in gloom, but the boy had taken the chair at the desk-dresser combo and was seated in a circle of light. He shook his head as if to clear it, his unruly blond hair creating a golden aura about his head. The kid grinned up at the older man, his eyes illuminated with lust.

The Trucker glanced down the teen’s tight, lithe body, his purple jersey revealing the full length of his firm arms, his biceps forming small mounds under his skin, which was covered with a faint golden down. He sat with his legs spread wide, his smooth, muscled thighs parted and his skimpy shorts pulled up so that his entire package was lying out on the chair. On top of his large puckered scrotum his dick, a long dark sausage-like tube projected from a tangled mass of red-gold curls.

The punk reached his hand down, gripping his meat tightly. He shifted his feet, flexing his thick calf muscles in their tight black socks as he stared brazenly at the Trucker.

“So,” he drawled, “ya gonna fuck me or what?”

The Trucker looked down at the boy without saying anything. Suddenly, his face twisted into a grim smirk. “Sure, I’ll fuck ya. You want the dick, you fuckin’ slut? Work for it. You gotta earn this cock, bitch,”

Still fully dressed, the Trucker reached down and unzipped his bulging fly. His massive member was too long to flop out on its own—he had to reach in to set it free. As it swayed and bobbed in the air, Adam’s eyes glazed over.

The Tucker gave a slight chuckle as he saw the kid’s cock get even darker and start to swell.

The Trooper was uneasy. He knew he had the right truck and he could have sworn that the guy he’d just seen was the driver. But he didn’t go back to the truck. So where did he go?

The only other option was the motel on the other corner. As he pondered it, the Trooper became more certain that he’d let his quarry slip out of his sight. He knew this predator liked to kill in motel rooms, but so far he hadn’t rented one on his own; the victims had all rented their deathbeds themselves.

And that kid hadn’t rented a room; the Trooper had seen him arrive. So maybe this time the truck driver had rented a room for himself.

The Trooper quickly got out of his car. If the dude was at the motel, he’d find him, but he didn’t want to park his car in the lot in case the killer glanced out the window at some point. No sense spooking him.

Thick-soled boots pounding firmly on the pavement, the Trooper quickly crossed the street and approached the office, a brightly lit glass cube at one end of the L-shaped building.

Inside the office, the fluorescent lights gave off a maddening buzz which likely explained the half-crazed look on the face of the night manager. She was a large older woman of indeterminate age with unkempt gray hair and cat-eye glasses.

She was a tough old broad who was there to take the money, hand out the keys and call in the local sheriff if anything got outta hand. No, there hadn’t been no problems tonight. And no, she didn’t remember any features of any of the guys staying. Best she could do was tell him which rooms were occupied; if he wanted anything more, he was welcome to come back with a warrant…

The Trooper smiled graciously, stifling his irritation. Fewer than half a dozen rooms were occupied; as he stepped out of the office, he noticed that one of the rooms she’d indicated was dark. If this dude truly was what the Trooper thought he was, there should be some sound involved.

Crossing swiftly but quietly to the darkened motel room, the Trooper removed his peaked cap and pressed his ear to the door. It was cheap hollow-core plywood, acting almost as sounding board. The room on the other side was very quiet with the exception of one very distinct sound—snoring.

The young cop stepped back and straightened up. He flexed his well-developed body, limbering up his back. He hadn’t expected this room to be it. The guy couldn’t possibly be done yet; what he did took too long. And he didn’t do it in the dark, either; this sick fucker enjoyed watching his victims suffer. It was gonna be one of the rooms that still had the lights on.

There were four other rooms to check. Walking slowly so that the thick soles of his high leather boots didn’t make too much noise on the pavement, he approached the closest lighted room, crouching quietly, waiting and listening.

The Trucker slipped off his leather vest. His tight white t-shirt underneath had a breast pocket with a distinctive rectangular bulge. He fished out his pack of smokes, lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the cracked and yellowed glass ashtray on the desk. Stripping out of his shirt, switching the cig from one hand to the other as he did so, the Trucker leaned back against the door and took a deep drag as Adam slowly rose from his chair.

Keeping his head pointed down, he turned his eyes up to the older man’s face, peering at him from under his sandy blond eyebrows. A cocky leer twisted his face as he ran his hands down his body, stroking the shiny polyester material of his jersey and shorts. He let them go down to his knees before pulling them back up, catching at the bottom of his shorts and pulling them up as well.

As he flashed his smooth inner thighs at the Trucker, Adam grinned with eager lust. Raising his hands to his hips, he gave a quick shake and the shorts fell to the ground. He still had the black socks clinging to his thighs and the leather sneakers tightly laced around his feet, but he was otherwise nude from the waist down.

Adam’s thick dark cock jutted like a masthead from the golden fleece of his pubic hair; already the Trucker could see a faint glint of precum welling from the slit at the tip of the swollen purple head. The little fuck was excited. He wanted to be used; it was obvious. Smirking, the Trucker knocked his ashes onto the thin, cheap carpet. He raised his left hand up to his large, hard nipple and began to stroke it.

The Trucker sneered down at him. “Ya want the D, motherfucker? You gotta earn it first, bitch. Let’s see what you can do. Get over here and work my nips.”

Adam approached the Trucker hesitantly—not because he was sharp enough to pick up on any danger signals, but because he was so turned on by this older alpha dude that he was afraid the guy would suddenly vanish, like a mirage.

Or worse, change his mind. Adam would do anything to prevent that from happening. Whatever this guy wanted to do to him, however far he wanted to go, Adam was willing to endure it if it meant this stud would unload inside him.

It didn’t occur to him that there might actually be a “too far”.

Reaching out a trembling hand, he gingerly grasped the Trucker’s nipples between his thumb and forefingers, squeezing gently. The Trucker took a deep drag of his smoke before responding with a jeer. “Is that the best ya can do, slut? I said work them, not tickle them, you stupid piece of shit.”

Closing his eyes, Adam gave another shuddering groan and began pulling more firmly on the alpha’s manteats, gradually increasing force and torque until he was twisting them violently. Not a muscle in the Trucker’s face moved in response to Adam’s attention, but his massive cock had swung out like the boom of a ship, slapping against the boy’s slightly smaller but no less erect shaft.

“Put your mouth on ‘em, boy,” growled the Trucker, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “If ya work ‘em good enough, I’ll stick my dick down yer throat.”

Adam bent his head forward and let his tongue explore the contours of the older man’s nipples. Giving a faint grunt, the Trucker lit another cig and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the door. He stood with his thick, denim-clad legs spread wide, boots placed far apart, dipping cock hanging out of his open fly. The smooth youth clung to his hard sculpted torso, fingers curled into the stud’s chest fur.

The teen’s full red lips spread over the Trucker’s areola, loudly slurping on the firm broad pecs as the boy reached between his legs and began jacking himself off. Suddenly the alpha grabbed the boy’s upper arms and pulled him off. He blew smoke into the punk’s face and began barking orders at him while the kid coughed.

“Enough. On your knees, cunt. Time to see what it takes to make ya gag. Down on your fucking knees and sit there like a pig with your mouth wide open. Now, bitch!”

An undefinable sensation ran through Adam’s body like an electrical jolt; a remarkable combination of hot lust and cold chill. Not being given to analysis, Adam heeded the one that felt best and obeyed. He sank to his knees and opened his mouth eagerly.

Taking another drag, the Trucker stepped forward and flicked his ash contemptuously into the little slut’s face. “Ready to choke on it, cunt? C’mon, you can open wider than that, cocksucker,” he chuckled.

Suddenly, he sprang forward, snatching a fistful of Adam’s tousled blond hair and jerked the startled youth’s head down onto his hard shaft. Before Adam could even brace himself, he found himself experiencing the most brutal skullfuck he’d ever endured.

The Trooper stood outside room 112, his ear pressed to the door. This was the third door he’d tried—the second one with the lights on. In the first lit room, he’d heard a lot of vigorous sex, but one of the voices was female.

He doubted his quarry was in the room, but he’d listened anyway; from the snatches of conversation he’d heard, the broad sounded like a whore.

Losing interest, the Trooper turned away. Even if the whore ended up murdered, he could give a shit. It wasn’t his problem. But he was anxious to find the killer and confront him.

In fact, his massive cock was throbbing in anticipation.

He’d paused and wheeled about in the parking lot, checking the location of the next rented room. Now he was here, listening eagerly for any sound through the door. So far, though, nothing but silence.

That worried him. He didn’t think he was too late, but it was possible. If not, that dude was probably murdering the kid he’d taken out of the bar right now. The Trooper wasn’t concerned about stopping the murder; he wanted to catch the fucker red-handed—on the other hand, he could still have some fun even if the kid wasn’t dead yet. He’d still be calling in a corpse or two by the time he was finished here.

But he didn’t want to take too long. After all, if the guy was done, there wouldn’t be any sound to indicate which room. There might be nothing but silence.

Adam coughed and gagged on the massive tube of flesh blocking his throat. He tried to look up at the Trucker, but his head was jammed so far into the dominant stud’s crotch that the dude’s wiry pubic hair scratched and scraped at his face like steel wool.

He pulled back involuntarily, in an instinctual attempt to breathe but the Trucker’s hands gripped his skull with vise-like strength, the crushing pain almost overriding the panic of suffocation.

“Swallow my dick, bitch, choke on it,” grunted the Trucker, holding Adam’s head immobile and pumping his hips violently. “C’mon and gag, you worthless cumsucker. Show me how much you like to get throatfucked, cunt!”

Adam reached up, trying desperately to get a grip on the older man’s torso, to find some way to get leverage and free himself, but it was futile. He grasped at the alpha’s muscular flanks but they were sweaty with exertion and his hands slipped off.

His grasping, fluttering fingers slipped to the Trucker’s thighs and found purchase on the tight denim wrapping the powerful, thrusting legs. He still couldn’t breathe, but he wasn’t strong enough to push back against the alpha top and get loose.

It happened suddenly—he couldn’t breathe, it was bad, it hurt—and the need to vomit. He gagged up a huge froth of saliva and the Trucker pulled his huge dick out, letting the punk drool a long streamer of foam from his lips down onto his bare thighs.

Still kneeling, Adam leaned back against the bed. He continued to cough and gag.

“Stupid little fuck, can’t take a real man, can ya, faggot?” sneered the Trucker. “Let’s see if your fuckhole can do better than your useless mouth. Can’t call ya a cocksucker, ya piece a’ shit—can’t even do that right. Now take off that stupid fuckin’ jersey and get up on the bed. On your back with your legs in the air, cunt. NOW.”

Eyes closed, still gasping for air, Adam heard the man’s words and moaned faintly with pleasure. Fuck, this was the real thing. This dude was gonna give him his best fuck ever; he knew it.

He was right.

Quickly, tremblingly, he jerked the slick purple jersey off over his head. He backed onto the bed, his smooth, slim body glistening with a light sheen of perspiration. A faint golden haze, like the down on a peach, darkened the lower part of his smooth, flat belly, growing thicker as it descended towards his groin.

The Trucker lit another cigarette. Still standing upright, legs spread with his shaft jutting straight out in front of him, he remained motionless as Adam positioned himself, watching the slut with no more expression than a faint sneer.

Settling himself with both pillows propping up his head, Adam was lying on his back. He reached down and, placing his hands behind his knees, pulled his legs up and apart, spreading them for easy access to his asshole. His fingers dug deeply into the silky-smooth flesh of his thighs; his calves and feet still covered with the black tube socks and black leather hightop sneakers, now hanging in the air, bobbing slightly—his toes curling in expectation of the pleasure to come.

The Trucker was only half-finished with his smoke when Adam finished arranging himself. He grinned, but didn’t move. Neither did Adam. As if knowing instinctively what to do, he did nothing—remained there with his legs spread in the air, pink asshole pulsating, long-lashed eyes staring longingly at the silent alpha male who was leisurely finished his cig…

It was a silent but very intense moment that stretched out for an almost unbearably long time—and yet somehow did not lessen in intensity while it lasted. Which was why neither of them heard the faint crunch of a booted footstep outside the door.

The Trooper moved on to the next room, but he wasn’t happy. That room had been too quiet. Of course, whoever rented it could be out and have left the light on—but in this kinda place, that was unlikely. Most customers rented for a short time for a specific purpose. Once they left the room, they usually didn’t come back.

But he had other rooms to check. Maybe he’d be hit paydirt with one of them.

It ceased to be quiet fairly quickly. The Trucker tossed his still-smoldering butt into the ashtray and approached the slut. Grasping his massive club-like cock in one hand, he slapped it against the other as he approached the bed, splattering Adam’s lithe body with transparent drops of precum.

“Ready for it, cunt?” he jeered. “Fuckin’ whore like you ain’t gettin’ no lube, so this is gonna hurt, even for a slut like you.”

Before Adam could respond, the alpha stud had parted his legs and placed the swollen purple head of his shaft against the teen’s quivering fuckhole. As he felt the massive spade-shaped bulb press forcibly against his sphincter, the punk responded with sudden trepidation. “H-hey, man—d-don’t hurt me, huh?”

The Trucker grinned but remained silent. Lunging forward suddenly, he slammed his engorged tool up Adam’s pulsating rectum, feeling the boy’s sphincter resist, tightening around his shaft like a cockring.

Adam, suddenly confronted with horrible sexual trauma, squealed like a pig. All the other dudes who’d fucked him were grateful for the experience, grateful that a slut with a youthful appearance would let them use his hole. This was different. It was obvious that this guy didn’t give a shit about poor little Adam and all the trouble he’d had in life. This guy wanted to use him like an object and didn’t care what happened to him beyond that point.

It was terrifying and it made Adam hornier than he could have imagined. He moaned loudly, his stretched-out ass muscle feeling every vein wrapped around the massive shaft jammed up his colon.

The Trucker leaned forward, his huge muscled form pressing down on the punk’s slim, smooth form. Hooking his arms under the slut’s knees, he pulled the kid’s legs forward and up, rotating his ass so it was perfectly aligned to the natural angle of his own cock.

Adam’s face was clenched tight in a grimace of pain; tears leaked from his eyes, pulled back into slits. Loose? What the fuck was this dude talking about? Adam’s ass was so full of dick he was afraid—really afraid—that physical damage was being done to his rectum.

The Trucker bent his head down until his face was mere inches from that of the sobbing, gasping teen. Staring deep into Adam’s bloodshot eyes, the alpha’s grin shone with gleeful malevolence. “Not yet, cunt,” he whispered, “not quite yet, you stupid bitch.” Then he spit in the kid’s weeping face.

The Trooper was standing in the recessed doorway of an empty room, far enough back in the shadows that he couldn’t be seen. He was in a quandary; a bit of good luck was dragging on so long it could turn into bad luck.

He’d just started towards the fourth room when the door to the fifth opened. The Trooper had instantly ducked into the darkness where he could observe the occupants.

And more than one guy was leaving the room, making it highly unlikely either was his quarry—this predator always left alone—he didn’t leave anyone alive to leave under their own power. That took care of one of the last two rooms; he only had one more to check. It had to be that one or the one he’d just left. He should have enough time to confirm which one was right and catch the dude in the act.

The problem was these two faggots who’d just left the room. They were still there in the parking lot. One was a young man in his late twenties, slim with long brown hair; the other was a hairy bear of a man in his forties who kept wrapping his massive paws around the boy.

The Trooper seethed. If he emerged from the shadows now, he’d freak them out. And if they made too much noise, he’d spook his prey. His eyes glittered with anger as he ground his teeth in the darkness. If it wasn’t for the need for silence, he’d march out right now and arrest those fucking homos…

They parted, suddenly, each to his own car. When they pulled out of the lot, they went in different directions.

The Trooper remained still until their taillights faded to pinpoints in the distance—but the moment that point was reached, he bolted across the parking lot towards the last door. He had to take a moment to quiet his pounding pulse before he crouched, breathlessly, and pressed his ear to the door.

Drunk as he’d been, Adam was sobering quickly and very unwillingly. The pain was phenomenal; the dude wasn’t just plugging his ass, he was tearing it.

The punk found himself unable to breathe; utterly incapable of exhaling, he could only gasp and croak like a landed fish, his ears ringing with the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling and dangling in front of his face, reflecting light from the dim bedside lamp hypnotically back into his face, pale and strained in agony.

The wailing boy pushed and shoved on the thick arms, knotted with muscles, which pinned his shoulders to the bed; it was as futile as trying to move a post embedded in concrete. His frantic, grasping hands slipped on the Trucker’s sweat-slicked skin—suddenly he found himself beating against the alpha dude’s chest with as much effect as if he was beating an oak tree. Deep in desperation, Adam clutched involuntarily at the older man’s chest hair, the wiry fur scratching his palms as he bleated in agony.

“Goddammit, you worthless little motherfucker, you ain’t worth keepin’ alive to fuck!” rumbled the Trucker in his deep bass voice. “Yer makin’ too much noise and fightin’ too hard, you stupid slut, and you damn sure ain’t no virgin; yer ass is way too loose, cunt!”

Again, he hocked up a massive wad of phlegm and spit it contemptuously into Adam’s face, already smeared with snot from his continuous sobbing. The teen kicked his feet, his black leather sneakers beating the air helplessly over his assailant’s shoulders. He was still trying to push the Trucker off him, despite the obvious uselessness of the effort.

Adam’s drunken brain was mired in a fog of terror and physical pain that prevented him from thinking logically. He had clearly been warned that his best bet of getting out of this alive was to lie still and take the dick, but in his pain and panic, he wasn’t able to control his reactions.

His smooth teen body writhed violently on the soiled sheets, twisting them under him as they began to absorb the sweat forced out of his agonized form. The room positively reeked of mansweat and mansex as the Trucker pumped his own pheromones into the air to compete with those of the raped youth, already awash in the hormones common at his age.

But it was his squealing that broke the camel’s back. Aside from the possibility that it might alert others, it had a pig-like tone that set off the Trucker’s misophony, the neurologically hard-wired rage reaction in response to certain aural stimuli.

In other words, the teen’s cries of pain and fear automatically invoked an overwhelming anger in the Trucker. The intense desire to destroy the source of the sound descended on his consciousness like a red mist. It triggered a nightmarish apocalypse that rained down on the emotionally-damaged boy, filling his last moments on earth with a silent howling vortex of terror.

It started with the homicidal glint in the Trucker’s eyes—a look as cold and cutting as a sharp blade. When he spoke, it was in a low, controlled whisper that was somehow more chilling than any enraged screaming could have been.

Adam’s already-shrill scream started to spiral into a shriek but before he could get enough air, the Trucker sealed him off. It happened so fast Adam never saw it coming—one moment the dude’s hands were pressing down on his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises, the next, they were doing the same thing across his face.

One large strong hand was clamped across him mouth like a vise, the other had slammed down across his nose violently, crushing it flat.

Adam couldn’t breathe. And he couldn’t move—the Trucker was lying full-length on top of him, the weight of the larger, stronger man pinning the teen’s body deep enough into the cheap thin mattress that Adam could feel the springs digging into his back.

It just added more pain to the dark tornado of agony and terror that roared through Adam’s mind.

The Trucker looked down approvingly. He leered maliciously into the youth’s bulging, horrified eyes—all of the boy’s face that was visible above his hands. As he smiled, he tightened his grip brutally, digging his fingers deep into the flesh of the kid’s cheeks. “Mmmmpphhh!” the punk moaned, his long lashes fluttering as his eyes rolled back in his head.

The last thing Adam heard as he plunged into a bottomless black sea of pain, was a faint whisper, “Lights out, bitch.”

Silence. The Trooper was getting frustrated again. He had to be in one of two rooms—but which? They were equally quiet. And he had to be sure; he didn’t want to tip the dude off by causing a ruckus at the wrong door. It had to be sudden, a surprise.

Besides, he was still technically on duty and could be called away at any moment; otherwise he’d have just hung around and got the guy once he left the room.

Beyond that, though, he had his own reasons for wanting to catch the dude in the act. Reasons that got him hard. Reasons that would have gotten him fired and more if they became known.

Yeah, he wanted to find this dude. He could really give a shit if the kid was still alive when he got there; he wouldn’t be for long in any case.

The Trooper stood, again feeling the need to stretch. He flexed his thick firm legs, making sure not to thump the soles of his boots too loudly on the pavement. Just as he was about to return to his listening position, a flash of headlights swept through the parking lot. The lithe young man darted into an alcove between the rooms, a dark space containing a loudly-malfunctioning ice machine, just as a car pulled up a couple of spaces away.

From the recesses of the alcove, the Trooper was able to peer around the corner and observe the occupants. Straight couple—odd for this neighborhood. They got out of the car, still talking animatedly, but the ice machine made their conversation inaudible. Closer inspection, though, revealed that the chick was a tranny. They were probably arguing about her fee.

They needed to hurry up. The Trooper still didn’t know where his quarry was. He was getting impatient…

There were storms on the sea of pain and one of them tossed Adam up on the rocky shore of consciousness; a thin, sharp sensation as he struggled to inhale through his mashed nose, now so miraculously free.

The other pain, though… Nothing had dimmed the excruciating torture in his rectum; the agony was so intense he half believed he was being sodomized with a splintered wooden shaft; he’d been fucked many times before, no dude’s cock could be tearing him up like that…

The Trucker loomed over him, grinning. “Welcome back, slut. Ya didn’t think I was gonna let ya go that easy, didja?” Clenching the fingers still stretched over the boy’s mouth, the Trucker managed to elicit another squeal of distress. He responded to it by spitting into Adam’s flushed, distorted face.

Leaning back down over the trapped youth, the Trucker lowered his voice to a deep guttural snarl. “Naw, you useless motherfucker, you gotta earn a clean death. I’m gonna kill ya now. I’m gonna close off your air and let you slowly die on my cock. It’s gonna hurt, bitch, it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad. There’s only gonna be one way to end the pain, faggot—ya gotta make me cum. I promise, cunt—the moment I unload, I’ll snap yer neck and put you out of your misery. But until then, I’m gonna make sure your last moments are nightmarish.”

Adam stared blankly up at his tormentor. He’d heard the words but the second he understood them he decided not to understand them. The Trucker, however, wasn’t going to let him get away with it. “The more it hurts you, cunt, the better it feels for me. The better it feels for me, the more I hurt you. Only way to stop it is to work my shaft with your homo fuckhole till ya milk the sperm outta me. Then I’ll end for ya, nice and quick. Got it, punk? Ya better, cause it’s time to saddle up and ride ya till ya die in a fountain of spunk—yee-haw, motherfucker!”

He bent down and with his face just inches from that of his victim, neatly pinched Adam’s nose off between his thumb and forefinger.

The kid started jerking and twisting his head. The Trucker was strong enough to grind Adam’s septum between his fingers without letting the teen’s struggles have the slightest chance of breaking free—and all with no visible effort.

He simply lay on top of the kicking, panicking youth, his cock fully inserted into the punk’s shuddering colon. Still gripping Adam’s jaw and clamping his nose shut, the Trucker stared into the boy’s wide, terrified eyes, watching them swell as the pressure built in his head…

“Bet it’s startin’ to hurt now, huh? Can ya feel the blood pooling in your head? That pounding you hear, that’s your pulse. Your heart is trying to get the last of the oxygenated blood into your brain—cause once that stops, your brain starts dyin’. And there ain’t no comin’ back from that, motherfucker. So just lie back and enjoy the show, you worthless faggot slut, while I use your death throes to jack off.”

Adam was still awake enough to know what was happening. His reflexes were still sodden with alcohol but without the merciful dulling of edges conferred by drunkenness. His reaction was swift and violent.

The Trooper’s reaction was just as swift, but much less violent for the moment. The guy and the tranny had gone into the room he’d been watching. That could only mean one thing—it was the other room, the one on the other side of the lot.

He stepped out of the alcove and was about to cross the lot when a raucous burst of profanity drew his attention to five young men walking across the street from the bar, all in one group. Half-dressed twinks, they slobbered and pawed over each other seemingly at random as they ambled towards the office.

Goddammit! The Trooper slipped reluctantly back up onto the pavement in front of the rooms. One of the punks had gone into the office, but the others were still standing about in a giggling gaggle of twee little boys. The Trooper snorted with disgust as he edged his was around to the other side along the pavement, not openly crossing the lot. In this case, the most direct way would have taken him right in front of the fluttering fuckin’ butterflies…

On the other hand, it might not be a bad idea to see which room they got. Just in case this wasn’t as fun as he’d planned—nothing wrong with having a Plan B.

As Adam slowly died beneath him, the Trucker amused himself by taunting the traumatized youth, fucking his mind no less brutally than his ass. As his cock ripped and tore the teen’s guts, his jeering slashed at the stunned boy’s psyche, flaying his soul with terror.

“What’s it feel like, boy? What’s it feel like to die with a dick up yer ass? What’s it like knowin’ yer gonna be found pumped fulla cum and snuffed in a cheap motel next to a faggot bar, huh? Gotta make yer momma and daddy proud, son! C’mon, you queer-ass cock-suckin’ bitch, you gotta earn my load!”

Adam’s expression was one of terror and baffled despair; above the strong, tight, suffocating hands of his killer, his skin of his face was becoming livid and blotchy. His blond hair was dark and slick with sweat, the cold sweat forced out of the dying punk’s body in instinctive reaction to the fiery pain in his chest and head. His legs kicked frantically, one of his hightop sneakers flying off his foot and bouncing off the right-hand wall.

So c’mon, ya piece of shit, time to decide. Work my ass. Work with me, boy, and I’ll end your useless life in a swift blast of excruciating pain—

—or let your will to live keep you alive for another few seconds as I narrate what parts of your brain are dying. Your choice. Let’s see how much of a masochistic pig you really are. You wanna die, to end it? Work with me now. That’s it, son, work with my thrusts, let your quivering fuckhole massage my dick. Yeah, boy, you’re gettin’ it. Keep it up and I’ll stop the pain. Just like that, yeah, and I snuff your worthless life and end your misery.”

Adam nodded violently, but it would have been difficult for an outside observer to tell if it was in acquiescence or involuntary. He was back in the howling black vortex, but this time was different—Adam didn’t want to escape. His universe had coalesced into a bright point of burning pain and all that could assuage the agony was the icy coldness of death.

And that’s when he shot his wad.

All his pain, all his trauma, all his bitterness seemed to be distilled into his semen; it burned like acid as it boiled its way out of his somehow-erect cock, the sheer flaming agony of his over-sensitive nerves highlighting the shocking sense of physical betrayal as the shattered remains of Adam’s personality were sucked into frigid eternity.

One last spark of sentience received pain stimuli from the rectum and lower intestines; a sensation of boiling liquid heat. There was no time to process the sensation of having cum shot up his dying ass; Adam simply registered the pain and died.

The Trucker gasped and steadied himself on the bed, his dogtags jangling as his muscled form shuddered in orgasm. Beneath him, the punk’s face was almost black, his eyes swollen horribly. The Trucker smiled gently and whispered, “Promised I’d snap yer neck if ya got me off.”

Still grasping the youth’s jaw with one hand, the Trucker wrapped the other in Adam’s sweat-drenched hair. A quick, brutal jerk, instantly followed by the snapping, shattering sound of a greenstick fracture, and the teen’s head lolled limply and grotesquely on his chest. As his vertebrae exploded, his body jerked as if an electrical shock had been applied—as indeed it had; one last blast of electrochemical activity along dead nerves. The corpse’s cock, jolted back to life momentarily, stood up and sent one last spurt of seed up to splash against the underside of the Trucker’s jaw.

Trembling and tingling with the pleasure of a job well done, the Trucker slid his still-engorged shaft, still slimy with his own cum, out of the corpse’s quivering asshole. His swollen purple head popped out of the torn sphincter, followed by a pink discharge of mingled blood and semen.

He needed to calm down for a moment, to regain some control and slow his breathing and pulse. Scooping his t-shirt off the floor, he fished his smokes and lighter out of the pocket. Lighting one, he relaxed and admired the view of Adam’s smooth lean body sprawled helplessly on the bed, feet still kicking–one tightly laced in its black leather sneaker, the other only half-covered by the Nike athletic sock which was being slowly pulled off by the corpse’s convulsions.

Striding quickly to the bathroom, the Trucker tossed his butt into the toilet and flushed it before turning on the shower. He followed his prior MO of cleaning himself off and tossing the towels in the shower to wash away the evidence. But unlike the last one, this cunt might not have been with anyone else tonight.

Time to wash some meat.

Stepping back into the room, the Trucker grabbed the corpse’s hand and dragged the still-kicking body into the bathroom, positioning it so he could get it into the bathtub and flush out the anal cavity.

Kyle admired his bare chest in the mirror. Slim and lithe, he had a perfect teen body and he did his best to keep it looking that way. When he arched his back, his ribcage became barely visible beneath his smooth, soft skin, but in a normal posture he had just enough meat on his bones not to be scrawny. His chest, hairless but for a faint peach-like fuzz, displayed his small but erect nipples proudly on the slight mounds of his pecs.

His torso narrowed only a little as his flat, silky belly descended to his waist. Beneath that, a flaxen, tangled mass of pubic hair formed an almost delicate frame for his cock—six inches and only semi-soft. The upper part of his thighs was firm and almost hairless, much like his abdomen—but there the view stopped. It was the bottom of the mirror.

Sighing happily, Kyle turned away and headed towards his computer. His apartment was small but not squalid; with no space for a computer table, he’d set a laptop on a TV tray in his living room and took it down when needed. But the bedroom opened off the living room and the sink and mirror were out in the bedroom, with toilet and tub only enclosed in a separate room.

It was much like living in a cheap motel. But living alone as he did, Kyle had no way of knowing how long he remained visible in the mirror, how his firm but not overly-developed legs could have been viewed, flexing with each step, his rounded ass, smooth like the skin of fresh fruit pulsing repeatedly.

Then again, he really didn’t need to see it; he knew. It wouldn’t be true to say that he worked hard physically to maintain his physique; it was natural to him. It would probably be more accurate to say that he worked hard not to change it.

Kyle was actually a bit older than he appeared. He’d managed to retain the look of a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old boy at the age of twenty-four. He always took along a photo ID and had needed to produce on most of his sexual encounters. And there’d been a lot.

Kyle wasn’t a whore; he made decent money in telemarketing—but he was completely and utterly a slut. He lived to get fucked.

As he logged in online, he was also dying to get fucked. Tonight, that desire would be fulfilled in ways he couldn’t have possibly imagined.

There was a specific site he went to, a very basic online bulletin board called anonygays. It was solely devoted to gay hookups and postings could be sorted by several different filters. Kyle started with the location filter, working his way out from his zip code.

Nothing worthwhile nearby—the same usual sad old fat fucks he saw daily. But when he expanded his search, he found something in a nearby zip code—one a bit further west.

“Hey Traveling stud. Willing to take what you can give. Lemme know where to go.

–Holeboy”

He didn’t bother to send his stats. He simply attached a pic of himself, nude from the waist up.

In his eagerness for a response, Kyle couldn’t sit still. He got up and paced for a minute or two before checking his email.

Nothing.

Sighing impatiently, he turned to the bedroom. This would probably be washout like so many of the others—why was it so hard to find a good top? Even so, he should probably give the dude another couple of minutes. Wouldn’t hurt to get dressed; he’d need to anyway. If it wasn’t this guy, he’d be going out to service someone else tonight. He wasn’t going to bed until he’d had sperm pumped down his throat or up his ass.

Even though he wasn’t a literal whore, Kyle went out his way to dress like one. The white sleeveless tank top, a shiny polyester blend, wrapped his slim torso tightly enough to be nearly transparent while the black shorts he managed to wriggle into cinched off high on his thigh, tightly highlighting his thick cock and his firm bubble butt. He slipped on an expensive pair of black Air Jordans, leaving the hightops untied, tucking the loose bright-red laces down inside next to his white ped socks.

Deciding that he’d waited long enough, Kyle headed back towards the laptop to check messages, only to find that his internet connection had failed. He exhaled impatiently and began pulling up the forum app on his phone while he waited for his modem to reset and his browser to reload.

It was neck and neck for a while, but the app on the phone won out in the end. The little red dot meant he had a new message. He clicked on it and greedily scanned the text.

Kyle knew the place. Out on business 128, which used to be the main highway before the bypass was built. A little L-shaped place that had been run for decades by the same couple. They still owned it and still staffed it much of the time, but the night shift had become too much for them. The help they hired didn’t have the same high standards as the owners, which is how Kyle had ended up getting fucked there on at least two prior occasions.

It wasn’t a sleazy, run-down, rent-by-the-hour bordello; it was clean but threadbare. In a year or two, well, that would be another story.

“Be there in 20. What room? What ya into?” was the response he sent back. Waiting for the reply, he turned his attention back to the computer. His browser was up and open; local news was displayed. There had been a fire in a dilapidated apartment complex used for public housing on the south side of town. And a massive drug bust, also on the south side. The third story was about a male prostitute found strangled in a nearby corporate hotel.

Kyle thought for a moment. That was what happened to whores. It was an occupational hazard. Wouldn’t happen to him, he wasn’t out to rip anyone off; he just wanted to give a good time and have one himself.

His phone vibrated—the app was still open. “Room 18. I’m into pounding boyholes. Get yours over here.”

His ass spasmed in anticipation; his cock swelled to an almost painful extent inside his tight shorts. He shut down the machine, killed the lights, and headed for his car.

He leaned back and lit a cigarette. The little fuck was on his way. He shut off the phone and tossed it onto the floor. Untraceable prepaid, or he wouldn’t have used it. Expensive and potentially dangerous; he’d have to find another option soon.

Taking another drag, he settled back in the chair, glancing around the motel room. He didn’t see any ashtrays but the pine-scented cleaner they used in this place hadn’t been able to overpower the smell of stale smoke accumulated over the years. Way too late for them to object to smoking in the rooms now. He tossed the smoke into the half-filled Styrofoam coffee cup he’d left on the tiny circular table placed between the door and the flimsy armchair.

Not like he could open the windows, either—the metal frames and latches of the sliding panes had been painted over so many times that it would take a hammer and chisel to get them to move.

Sighing, he stood up, flexing his long hard body, tightly silhouetted in a white cotton t-shirt which was tucked into his jeans. They were as tight as his shirt and the black leather belt wrapped around his waist emphasized the muscular firmness of his physique. The worn and faded jeans were tucked into the top of an open, unlaced pair of equally worn and scuffed workboots, pale tan with scarred black leather around the ankles.

He admired himself in the mirror for a minute, taking in the reflection of himself as the centerpiece of the clean but worn room. A slight warp in the glass distorted the view, making the worn blond-wood furniture seem curiously elongated. Behind him, to his right, he could make out the stripped bed, the cheap thin polyester comforter on the floor on the far side, in the space between the bed and the wall.

Abruptly, he turned and switched off the light by the door, leaving only the nightstand lamp on. Too dark, but he didn’t want to turn the other light back on, so he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the lights in there. Like the room, it was clean but old and inexpensive—simple white tile, large old porcelain toilet and sink (both very slightly stained) and a bathtub with a semi-transparent shower curtain.

The light refracting back into the room was sufficient; he was happy. Now came the waiting.

He didn’t like waiting. The longer he had to wait, the more his rage built.

Kyle pulled his 20-year-old Plymouth into the motel parking lot and killed the engine. Sitting in the dark, he lit the last half of his last cigarette. Hopefully this dude would have smokes he could borrow.

Presuming, of course, that he went through with this.

He was nervous. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already gotten fucked by dozens of random guys this way.

Room 18. He glanced towards the door, its turquoise paint gleaming dully under the dim parking lot light. Not too far away. And he was horny—so why was he nervous?

Was it that thing with the whore that he’d read about? Naw, that couldn’t be it; Kyle didn’t ask for money, didn’t steal and didn’t do drugs…a lot…

Ah, this was all bullshit. He wanted to get fucked; that was what mattered. Plus this old piece of shit car had no AC and he was already slick with sweat. This stud wouldn’t wanna do him if he got too nasty. He threw his smoldering butt out the window and got out of the car, closing the door quietly.

Kyle’s legs still felt weak and rubbery as he walked the few yards from his parking space to the door. This made no sense, he decided, pausing on the crumbling pavement. He wanted dick. He stepped up and knocked at the door.

A sharp golden triangle of light punctured the darkness on the doorstep. Kyle couldn’t clearly see the man who opened the door; all he could see was the silhouette of a large, muscular man towering over him.

He was in. Nerves or not, he wanted this guy. Didn’t need to know the details.

Kyle glanced around the room—cheap and dimly-lit but clean, as he expected. It was warm, though; the AC unit embedded in the wall under the window was running but not doing much more than pushing around the smoke- and cleaner-scented air.

He relaxed a little and turned his gaze back to his hookup. The dude stood over him, somewhat backlit by the light spilling in from the bathroom. His muscles glistened slightly with sweat and Kyle felt his dick growing stiff again; his tight shorts didn’t give him much room to hide the fact.

The man turned, allowing Kyle to catch a glimpse of his strong jaw in profile before he saw the stud’s face, an unshaven shadow darkening his cheeks. Smoldering black eyes glinted dangerously below his hooded lids; his short, carefully-groomed hair was black as well. His eyes drifted down to Kyle’s crotch and a grin spread across his hard face.

Kyle stepped closer to the well-built man. He inhaled deeply as Joe reached towards him. As the older man grasped Kyle’s shirt and pulled it up over his head, the boy exhaled slowly, shuddering in anticipatory pleasure.

As Joe placed his large strong hands on the kid’s smooth, slick chest, Kyle looked up eagerly into the stud’s face, finding his cocky grin erotic. His hands fumbled at the man’s firm waist, seeking the bottom of his tight white t-shirt.

“C’mon, punk, pull it off, strip me,” Joe muttered. He bent over and raised his arms; Kyle had the shirt off immediately.

They stood close, each running his hands over the other’s firm, sweat-slicked chest—Kyle tangling his fingers in the tight curly fur on Joe’s broad pecs while Joe’s hands circled Kyle’s smooth, lithe torso.

Joe broke away. He turned to the dresser and retrieved a pack of Camels. Shaking a couple of cigarettes out of the hard box, he proffered one to Kyle before sticking one in his mouth and lighting it. He handed the lighter to the boy, letting his gaze rove over the punk’s smooth teen body as it was illuminated in the flash of flame.

Kyle’s blond hair glowed momentarily like a halo before sinking back to dull yellow as he took a drag and handed the lighter back to Joe. He stood close to the older, larger man, inhaling his scent of sweat and male pheromones along with the smoke. The combination made him feel a little high, as if lust was disorienting him slightly. Well, that would be about right…

Joe looked down at the kid, exhaling smoke into the punk’s face. He didn’t wince; good. He’d be wincing plenty later on but for right now, he was horny and wanting to get plowed. And it wasn’t like Joe wasn’t horny himself; the massive ridge of flesh outlined in his groin was proof of that. As he took another drag, he reached out with his free hand and fondled the kid’s chest, squeezing his nipple. Kyle responded in kind, applying rhythmic pressure to Joe’s bullet-hard nip.

They didn’t completely finish the cigarettes; the lust was too over-powering. Kyle was the first to break down. He threw his half-finished cig into the coffee cup on the table and reached forward, grabbing the bulge in Joe’s crotch and massaging it as he dropped to his knees.

The muscled stud stood erect. Looking down at the eager young boy, he tossed his butt aside as well. “Undo my belt and unzip my fly, boy,” he snapped.

Kyle felt an erotic thrill run through him like an electrical shock at the command. Finally, someone who’d top him like the slut he was, someone who’d punk-fuck him like a bitch, filling the empty hole in his soul with cock and cum.

Or so he hoped.

Joe glared contemptuously down at the boy gripping his dick through his jeans. His rage had been kept under control so far; the little fucker was still anxiously horny and wanting to get cornholed. He needed to rein it in just a little bit longer. The cunt wasn’t quite in position yet. But when he was…

Joe grunted. Kyle thought it was due to his handjob. If he’d known the plans running through Joe’s mind—but then, he’d already ignored his intuition in the parking lot.

He plunged headlong towards death with his dick hard and dripping.

Joe’s thick leather belt was easily unbuckled but Kyle’s desire made his hands shake; the button and zipper on the jeans took a bit longer. Before long, though, he was rewarded with a huge thick tube of manmeat flopping out into his face.

He didn’t hesitate. Opening his mouth wide, he swallowed the engorged purple head, sinking the massive, vein-wrapped shaft painfully down his throat, feeling his esophagus stretch with the effort. Suddenly Joe’s hands were on the sides of his head, almost crushing it in a painful, vise-like grip. Kyle realized he couldn’t move his head at almost the exact moment Joe’s cock plugged his throat and cut off his air. He pressed his palms against the older man’s thighs, his heart rate increasing as he realized that he couldn’t force the muscled alpha away. He was pinned in an iron grip, helpless as an enormous dick was plunged down his windpipe…

Then it was gone; in the moment before panic set in, Kyle was able to breathe. There was nothing in his mouth but a trail of salty precum down the center of his tongue. The dripping shaft was bobbing in front of his face.

“Get on the bed, bitch,” Joe growled, “I wanna fuck ya doggie style. Get outta them shorts and on yer hands and knees. Get ready to take it up the ass, boy.”

Kyle hurried to obey. The ice-cold intonation of Joe’s voice sent a brief flash of fear throughout his feverish body, but his lust was too intense and the heat in his belly reignited. He mind in almost a dream state, Kyle stood and wriggled his way out of his tight shorts, standing and turning around, nude but for his hightops and socks. In the back of his mind, as he climbed up and positioned himself in fucking position, was the thought that the Imperial was still using those thin, scratchy sheets…

He bent down, pointing his quivering rose-colored fuckhole up to the open air. Knowing how much this was gonna hurt, he clenched his eyes and fists and gritted his teeth in preparation.

Joe approached the boy on the bed, his huge shaft jutting out in front of him. His jeans and belt hung open, peeled aside to allow him easier access to Kyle’s ass. His construction boots thumped on the thin carpet as he got near enough to start slapping his dripping tip on Kyle’s smooth asscheeks.

“Hey, man, what kinda lube you gonna use?” Kyle suddenly asked.

After a split-second hesitation, Joe’s answer was like the crack of a whip. “None, you cunt.”

And then he was in. He was all the way in.

It was shock, physical shock, that prevented Kyle from screaming instantly. Joe’s gigantic dong was deep into his rectum before he had time to process the sensation. He gasped, trying to fill his lungs for what would have been a shrill shriek.

But just as he was about to release it, Joe’s hand came down on the back of his head, forcing it inexorably into the mattress. Kyle found his outraged scream muffled into an extended groan as he thrashed in agony, mercilessly impaled on the older man’s tool.

“Fuck yeah,” Joe grunted as he relaxed his hard body on top of the boy, keeping his cock plugged up the punk’s ass. Slowly, he lessened the pressure on Kyle’s head, letting the whimpering bitch raise his face and gradually start to breathe again.

Unexpectedly, Joe rose up on his knees, tightly gripping Kyle’s hips and pulling him up as well. Gasping deeply and trying to recover his wits, Kyle came up on his hands and knees.

He was in over his head. He knew that now. He wished he’d heeded his fears in the parking lot…

“P-please, man, enough,” he begged. “I-I’m sorry, dude, but I can’t do this. You’re too much for me, man.”

“I know, cunt,” Joe snapped, “but don’t worry, I can still work your worthless body so I can cum. Now shaddup, you piece a’ shit!”

Lunging forward, he wrapped his hands around Kyle’s throat and began to squeeze.

In retrospect, he decided he needed to remember his victim’s real age; the younger they were, the less able to resist—but that was the actual, not apparent age. This kid looked sixteen, but he was in his twenties and fought like it.

Kyle was able to break free. Joe was embarrassed with himself. His cunts shouldn’t be getting away; this one was pissing him off. That was unfortunate—for the cunt.

As Joe struggled to keep his control over Kyle, his fingers slid over the boy’s smooth, slick skin. Kyle lunged up and to the right, pulling himself off Joe’s dick and onto the nightstand. His slim but muscled arms scrabbled at the lamp and phone as he desperately attempted to escape what he thought was going to be a rape, the hands around his throat notwithstanding.

Joe had other ideas. Grabbing at Kyle’s shoulders, he managed to get the kid back onto the bed, flipping him onto his back in the process. The bedside lamp had fallen to the floor and shattered—the only light illuminating Kyle’s desperate fight was that reflected from the bathroom.

Kyle stared up at Joe’s hard, scruffy face in shock, not fully understanding the import of his words. He understood pain well enough, though, and as Joe brutally shoved his engorged shaft unexpectedly back into Kyle’s torn, traumatized colon, he inhaled instinctively prior to emitting an ear-piercing shriek sure to alert the neighboring rooms.

Except Joe anticipated this. Picking up the landline telephone, Joe waited until Kyle took his deep pre-scream breath, then slammed the inert chunk of plastic and metal into the boy’s face.

Kyle grunted in agony as his head rolled back onto the bed, blood trickling from his broken nose. He jerked and twitched; overwhelmed by the physical imperative to breathe, he utterly abandoned any attempt to cry out.

Joe jerked the phone forward brusquely, yanking the cord out of the wall. Reaching under the phone itself, he quickly unhooked the other end and tossed it aside; it made a faint dinging sound as it bounced once on the bed.

“Thought ya were gonna get away from my cock, you worthless motherfucker?” he snarled into Kyle’s semi-conscious face as the punk moaned incoherently. Grabbing the kid’s smooth, firm legs, he parted them roughly before brutally plunging his throbbing, swollen member into Kyle’s ravaged, pulsating asshole.

In a dark, swirling haze of pain, the new burst of agony in his already-abused fuckhole brought Kyle back to his senses. He regretted it immediately.

He tried to wrap his mind around what was happening, but he couldn’t. He was a horny little twink who’d never considered his own mortality and had no reference now that it was staring him in the face, sneering and spitting at him, telling him what a stupid piece of shit he was.

Which was exactly what Joe was doing.

“Thought you were just gonna get a quick fuck tonight, huh, faggot? Thought you were just gonna get it up the ass? Guess what, motherfucker—you’re gettin’ it up the ass all right, you worthless cocksucker; yer gonna die with a dick shoved up your homo fuckhole!”

Joe grinned down at the boy, savoring his stunned fear and incomprehension. Settling on his knees, his dick still jammed up the bitch’s ass, he wrapped the phone cord around his hands, slowly and significantly, letting the boy see.

Kyle saw but refused to understand. His mind stopped short of the realization of what the cord was for. He lay shuddering, whimpering and terrified, too sunk in inertia to make another attempt to escape. He knew he was gonna get hurt, but his train of thought ran out of steam after that point.

Joe was aware that the fucker had tuned out. He decided it was time to get his attention again. His cock, thick and hard, plugged the little shit’s hole but he wasn’t actively getting fucked.

When Joe suddenly threw himself down onto Kyle, pumping his massive shaft swiftly and brutally into the boy’s torn, damaged rectum, the kid’s eyes widened. Joe grinned again; he’d been right—best way to get the fuckmeat to start responding again was to apply a little pain.

Of course, there was such a thing as too much response. The motherfucker began beating on him, fists hammering against his huge muscled chest with as little effect as if it had been a brick wall.

Kyle heard the words. He didn’t fully comprehend them, but he was filled with terror already and it took little to push him over the edge. This guy was gonna hurt him. He had to get away; he had to get out of this room, he had to get out now NOW—

His lithe body began thrashing violently; somewhere deep inside his mind, some small dark part was aware of the sensation of his slim body rubbing and sliding against that of the older, muscular man on a thin film of sweat. Their bodies writhed together as if lubed with oil.

But Kyle was hysterical, not horny. His ragged breathing became more strenuous; Joe recognized the signs. The slut would start screaming any second now. Time to put a stop to that shit. Time to put the cord to use.

He held it up in front of Kyle’s weeping, snot-smeared face. He knew the kid saw it—and he knew the kid had no idea what it was for. Yet.

Well, time to let the motherfucker in on the secret. Wrapping the ends of the strong plastic and metal cord around his strong hands, he smiled almost gently into Kyle’s face. “I know, I know,” he whispered, “shhh—just take it, cunt. It’ll hurt less.”

He leaned menacingly over the punk’s shuddering, supine form. “Of course, you’re too fucking stupid to listen,” Joe said, an iron edge creeping into his voice, “so your death is gonna end up being agonizing and nightmarish. Tough shit, cunt. Ready to die?”

Before Kyle had a chance to react, Joe had the cord wrapped around his neck; his thick muscled arms had moved with frightening speed. He was talented; his massive shaft had never completely disengaged from Kyle’s mangled colon, the huge purple head plugging the cunt’s ass the entire time.

Joe pulled the cord tight, but not tight enough to completely cut off Kyle’s air. Not that Kyle appreciated the fact; his esophagus was so constricted that he could breathe only with the greatest exertion. He stared up at Joe’s dark, unshaven face, wheezing frantically with effort, his youthful face a mask of horror.

Joe noted it and smiled. The boy’s fear and suffering made his huge cock even harder. He was glad he’d picked out that ad on the bulletin board; this worthless disposable sack of meat was gonna be a good fuck.

From the corners of his eyes, Kyle saw Joe’s huge arms, biceps bulging in strain as he tightened the cord. His fear and horror, strong as those sensations had been, now coalesced into a single point of panic as his air was cut off with crushing agony.

Suddenly, the realization had hit him as an epiphany, a lightning bolt. This dude was gonna kill him. He was gonna die.

It couldn’t happen. He’d never thought it could happen. But the pain, the horrible, horrible pain—he’d thought he was gonna get raped but this—no—no, not happening—

Leaning down, Joe closely examined the meat’s face as the realization of incipient death swept across it. There, fuck, there it was, so fucking erotic as the fucking meatpunk realized he was gonna die…

Again, Kyle heard the words; they hit him like bricks, leaving him battered but not penetrating deeply. The cord was what was penetrating deeply; the horrific crushing pain in his throat was all-encompassing. His hands scrabbled frantically at his throat—he could feel the deep divot where the phone cord had sunk in, but it was so far down he was unable to grasp it, no matter how desperately he clawed at his neck.

Joe sneered and spit into Kyle’s panicked face. The kid’s eyes, already huge with terror, were starting to bulge. Thick wet choking grunts emerged from his closed-off gullet as the skin of his face began to darken.

Kyle was sinking into a universe of agony he’d never suspected could exist; even through the unspeakable nightmare of strangulation, he could still feel the enormous shaft plowing his ass. His head seemed to be swelling uncontrollably; his eyes and his tongue—oh fuck it hurt so bad, he had no idea getting fucked to death would hurt so bad—no, he wasn’t gonna go out like this, not gonna happen!

The dying youth flailed wildly, an almost instinctive attempt to escape. His slim but firm arms thrashed almost uncontrollably against Joe, his fingers clutching reflexively in the alpha’s chest hair. The shuddering punk’s other hand reached out blindly, grasping at the air before falling back on Joe’s face.

By a quirk of synaptic circumstance, the boy somehow managed to stroke his killer’s cheek; his mind, inflamed with terror, still noting the fur on the muscular dude’s scruffy face.

Joe gritted his teeth and held onto the meat, working his violently convulsing body like a rodeo rider controlling a bucking bronco. He was used to riding out the death throes and he liked to let his victims know the fact.

Kyle’s mind and body both were awash in a flame of agony as his jerking body began to shut down from lack of oxygen. His flailing hands were no long directed; they beat aimlessly at the merciless alpha. He was vaguely aware of the wiry hair in which his fingers occasionally caught but it was a faint sensation compared to the vicious thrusting agony in his torn, ravaged rectum.

As he began the physical process of death, Kyle’s awareness somehow intensified; he felt it all, the nightmarish pain of a slow, excruciating death. The pounding, drumming sound in his head was increasing in both tempo and volume as his face seemed to swell. His tongue was swelling as well; as he gagged and choked, he could feel it move forward, parting his lips. Even as he thrashed and fought, he could feel thick foamy drool leaking horribly down his smooth cheeks.

But the dying boy was especially aware of his traitorously engorged cock, somehow erect despite the terrible pain and fear—even over the pulse of blood in his head, he could hear the thick tube of flesh slapping back and forth between his heaving, sweat-soaked belly and the hard, firm abdomen of his killer.

Snarling down into the twisted, blackening face of the slut convulsing violently beneath him, Joe realized the useless little fuck was on his way out. The kid’s limbs, smooth and strong, still beat against him in futile, despairing resistance, and it was getting annoying.

“Enough, bitch, stop fightin’ it. Yeah, punk, you’re working my shaft real good but not good enough to put up with this shit. You’re dying, you faggot—only things left to decide are how long it’s gonna take and how much it it’s gonna hurt. So stop kicking and take my dick up your ass as you die, cause as bad as it hurts now, if you piss me off, it’s gonna get much worse.”

Joe thrust his face into Kyle’s, looking deeply into the youth’s bulging, terrified eyes, peppered with pinpoint hemorrhages. There was still a light buried within their frantic depths. Someone was still home.

“I know you’re in there,” he whispered sadistically to the suffering youth quivering in his arms, “I know you can hear me. Stop fighting it and I can make it hurt less. Accept it and you’ll enjoy your death. Give it up, cunt.”

Kyle’s psyche had shattered under the strain of being snuffed; his mind, paralyzed in terror, ran in a groove of sheer panic, occasionally illuminated by flashes of remorse for ignoring his hesitation earlier. But these were mere glimpses of lucidity in the cold howling vortex of agony the slut now inhabited.

As his nervous system began to fail, Kyle’s nerve endings became hypersensitive, exposing him to a torture he’d never conceived. As he arced his back convulsively, pressing his torso against that of his assailant, Joe’s belt buckle dug into Kyle’s tender belly flesh; to the punk, it was the sharp pain of a stab wound…

His smooth legs kicked out wildly, scraping across the thin sheets before wrapping tightly around Joe’s sweaty, thrusting flanks. The muscles in his thighs tensed and released swiftly in mortal spasm; as his left foot raked across Joe’s firm, pumping ass, the heel on his black Air Jordan caught and the sneaker flew off, hitting the dresser and falling to the floor. Kyle’s twitching foot, still wrapped in its tight white ped sock, pawed mindlessly at the bed.

The slut’s hands were slow and gentle now; Joe felt them caressing his rough, unshaven cheeks, powerless now to cause any damage. He looked down at the smooth, slim body writhing in agony under him, the bare chest heaving in desperate agony. Foamy spittle still oozed from around the kid’s thick dark tongue, sticking grotesquely out between blue lips. He pressed his lithe, smooth body up against that of his killer’s, his golden pubic hair mingling with the dark hair on Joe’s lower abdomen.

As Joe rode the kid into death, he felt the boy’s thick rod sliding around in his belly fur. The homo’s arms were losing strength, but his legs were still going strong and that one hightop he had left was literally a pain in the ass.

“Stupid cunt,” he snapped, “couldn’t even follow directions to ease your own way out, huh? Now it’s gotta hurt. Die, you worthless faggot. Die on my fucking cock—yeah, you ready? Ready for pain and cum and death? Here ya go, you disgusting piece of shit—your momma’s gonna get told they found your fucked-out homo ass raped and strangled in a cheap hotel—and that you died hard!’”

Joe forced the thrashing punk down onto the bed by the sheer overwhelming size of his hard body. Grunting deeply, he pulled his arms apart, his biceps straining with the effort and tendons bulging on his neck, digging his work boots into the surface of the bed for better traction.

As the cord vanished into his neck, Kyle’s kicking and jerking intensified. This was an instinctive response; what little of Kyle was left was wallowing in the agony of over-sensitized nerve endings. His guts were being impaled; a blazing wire seemed to run down the center of his excruciatingly swollen dick.

Then his esophagus collapsed with a loud crunch. Despite his failing nervous system, Kyle felt the crushing agony. He tensed again, wrapping his arms and legs tightly around Joe’s hard, thrusting body, slick with sweat. His sphincter spasmed and contracted, tightening around the base of the top’s thick shaft just like a cockring.

Then he reached his breaking point. Crying out, Joe clamped Kyle in an iron grip and spewed a hot, steady stream of sperm into the punk’s torn asshole.

Kyle was almost gone. Deep within, though, a tiny spark was left—one that was still hooked up to the fading nervous system, still hyperactive at the point of death.

He could still feel. He could feel cold and an all-over, indescribable pain in the quiet darkness surrounding him. Even the drumming sound in his ears had reached a crescendo before it had faltered and faded. But now he could feel something else.

Heat, horrific liquid heat flooding his guts as if lava had been pumped up his ass. His brain was far too damaged to comprehend what caused the sensation, but his body responded anyway.

He’d never known an orgasm could hurt so much. His spunk seemed to be so pressurized that it tore open his dick on the way out. Boiling fluid shot out of him, boiling fluid flooded his guts; somewhere along the line, his life was swept out with the current.

Joe held onto the shuddering corpse, spunking uncontrollably as a geyser of jizz erupted from the cunt’s purple shaft, splashing against the flat belly of his killer and splattering his own quivering body. As Kyle kicked and convulsed, random nerve signals jerked his right leg violently; his other sneaker slipped off, knocked to one side of the bed. His feet, in short ped socks, quivered mindlessly as Joe lay still, feeling the rest of corpse shudder against him as well.

He rose up on his knees, looking down at the tortured, twisted corpse, admiring his brutal kill as he struggled to get his air back after a powerful orgasm. After a moment or two on his knees, Joe felt that he’d regained enough control to stand up. Slowly pulling his still-oozing shaft out of the meat’s bleeding fuckhole, he backed off the bed, his unlaced boots landing solidly on the floor. He stepped into the bathroom and, quickly cleaning himself, tossed the used washrag into the toilet (the water reeked of bleach) before stuffing his massive shaft back into his jeans.

Joe re-entered the bedroom, admiring his handiwork. Kyle was lying spread-eagled on the bed, puddles of his own cum pooling on his flat belly and in the space between his small pectorals. A couple of spots were slowly glazing his black, swollen face.

One black hightop sat upright on the bed, red laces trailing; the other was hidden on the floor on the other side. The corpse was nude except for the white ped socks.

Joe wanted to remember this moment—and he had an idea how to immortalize it. The faggot’s clothes were still in a pile on the floor. Digging through the shorts, Joe quickly found Kyle’s cell phone in a pocket. Quickly accessing the camera, he stood at the foot of the bed and took a photo of Kyle’s sprawled, abused corpse.

He’d hang on to the phone for a little bit, anyway—not long, just long enough to lure in another cocksucker.

Reviewing the pic, Joe realized he’d caught himself in the shot; the angle he’d chosen had revealed him in the bathroom mirror. Normally this would be reason to not only delete the image but destroy the phone as well, but in this case he wasn’t worried. The flash had gone off and obscured the upper part of the shot; the pic revealed only a small reflection of a well-built man from the neck down—a muscled hairy chest descending to tight jeans and boots, but no identifying features.

The corpse, on the other hand, was crystal-clear. Furthermore, some of the swelling had gone down. Kyle’s face was still blackened and twisted, but was now more recognizable as the hot blond youth he’d fucked to death.

An evil idea crossed Joe’s mind like an electric shock. Going back to the menu on the boy’s phone, he opened the punk’s Facebook account. Sure enough, the stupid little shit hadn’t bothered to use a password on the app—Joe could access anything he wanted.

So he posted a photo of Kyle’s splayed corpse to the boy’s own wall.

Chuckling evilly, he pulled his t-shirt back on. He disabled the locator on the dead boy’s phone, but took it with him.

He’d use it to lure the next one.

Swiftly leaving the room, Joe heard the door latch behind him. He headed towards his pickup, his boots thumping heavily on the pavement as he worked out the phrasing for his next online ad.